


Fixation, and Other Stories

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Series: Fixation, and Other Stories [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Assisted Suicide, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Community: thirtyforthree, Conversations, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark, Experimental Style, Fairy Tale Style, Family Drama, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jossed, Journalism, Kittens, Multi, POV Multiple, Post - Half-Blood Prince, Prompt Fic, Sexual Content, Tattoos, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Time Turner, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-08
Updated: 2007-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginny/Harry/Draco, in various styles, tones, moods, and worlds, written as responses to thirtyforthree's first theme set.  Contains moderately explicit sex, implied torture, death, aliens-make-them-do-it, consensual murder/assisted suicide, dissolution of social norms in wartime, and familial strife... but also humor, princesses and dragons, vampires and vampire hunters, kittens and pillows, and other forms of utter crack. *evil grin*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fixation, I

**Author's Note:**

> Please read this note all the way through, or this story is going to make no sense at all. No, seriously, **READ THIS NOTE.**
> 
> Depending on how you squint, "Fixation" is either one long story with a ridiculously intricate structure, or a collection of 32 smaller stories, all some flavor of Ginny/Harry/Draco. I wrote the component fics between December 2005 and November 2006 (with a bonus sidefic in January 2007) as a set of theme responses for [thirtyforthree](http://thirtyforthree.livejournal.com), using prompt set #1. At first, I had no intention of letting any of the stories, drabbles, or character study vignettes interlock into anything like a unified story or timeline. Except then some of them did.
> 
> "Fixation, and Other Stories" is arranged in a pattern of alternating chapters. The odd-numbered ones contain two fics each and are all part of a single timeline -- "Fixation" -- while the even-numbered chapters -- the "Other Stories" part of the title -- contain three fics each and have sod-all to do with each other. The only consistent inter-chapter link is that they all deal with the same three people: Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, and Draco Malfoy. (Each even-numbered chapter does, however, have an _internal_ thematic link, like 'dystopian future' or 'crack AU.')
> 
> Basically, I was trying things out to see if they would fly or crash. Some flew. Others I'm still not sure about.
> 
> Thanks to Elaine K. for beta-reading.

**Gethsemane -- 12, alone**

Draco watched Potter, sometimes, and wondered what it was like to be a Gryffindor. Some of it he wouldn't touch on pain of death -- that idiotic, self-righteous conviction that they would always win because they were the Good Side, for example -- but to have friends who could laugh without a thread of calculation underneath, or to have the world assume he was innocent until proven guilty, instead of the other way around...

He wondered. He saw Weasley's sister kiss Potter, watched something crackle between them as strong as obsessive hatred, but different, not draining, and he tried to see how they could find something bright in this year, tried to see if he could learn their secret.

Then he remembered how easy it was to make people turn on the golden boy, how friends argued instead of getting things done. He remembered his father in Azkaban, his oath to the Dark Lord, the broken cabinet hidden away, and time panting hot on his neck. He wrapped his arm around Pansy, felt her body curve against his, and told himself to focus. There was no secret, nothing but Gryffindor blindness.

He turned away so he couldn't see Potter smile.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Vision (Quantum State Collapse) -- 19, time**

The trick about Time Turners was that you could change anything within twenty-four hours... so long as you hadn't actually seen it happen. That was what Hermione had eventually concluded, after weeks of research in the library and careful consideration of what she and Harry had done to help Sirius and Buckbeak escape. They hadn't actually _seen_ Buckbeak killed -- they'd only assumed he'd died, because of the axe falling and Hagrid carrying on. And then Harry'd _had_ to rescue himself, because he'd _seen_ himself doing it already, even if he'd thought it was his father.

It was like Thestrals. It didn't matter if you sat right next to a dying person -- if you didn't have your eyes open and you weren't watching at the exact moment of death, the magic didn't take and you still wouldn't be able to see the spectral horses.

Hermione still hadn't figured out why so much non-incantory magic was tied to sight. She'd decided it would make a good research project, once the war was over and she'd worked out a way to take her NEWTs despite not attending her seventh year.

But anyway, sight. Sight was key.

"Did you actually see the curse hit?" she asked Harry as he paced around the clearing. Ron lay slumped at the foot of a tree where she'd stunned him for his own good, and Neville and Luna had gone to Grimmauld Place to gather supplies.

Harry shook his head. "I was watching Malfoy. He went white, shouted, and threw the Portkeys at us -- there was a jet of light behind me -- then she was falling. Then the Portkeys activated, but her body isn't here! Do Portkeys work on... on..." He couldn't seem to get the word out.

"They might," said Hermione, "if the death was recent enough. Magical signatures linger for up to an hour, unless the death was caused by the Killing Curse; that overwrites the normal rules. But that's not the important thing. If you didn't actually see the curse hit -- if you didn't see her die -- then there's a chance we can rescue her." She opened the locket she'd taken to wearing since they left Hogwarts and whispered the spell to activate its link to her magical storage box. Then she pulled out an hourglass on a fine golden chain.

Harry gaped. Hermione flushed, and said, "I sort of borrowed it from the Ministry at the end of fifth year, before we ran into trouble. I thought -- well, it was dreadfully useful in third year, and I thought it might be good to have one, just in case."

"Hermione, you are bloody _brilliant_ ," breathed Harry.

"Language," she said with a sniff, but he just smiled and held out his hands for the Time Turner.

Hermione set the hourglass in his palms and let the golden chain puddle around it. She looked aside as Harry slipped it over his neck. "First, I'd see if you can slip a Portkey into her pocket this morning, set for one or two seconds before the ones Malfoy used, and make sure you're waiting with healing spells at the exit point. If that doesn't work, you'll have to sneak into the crypt again, judge the time-jump exactly right, grab her, and Apparate out before the curse hits you both."

She paused, frowning. "You might want to grab Malfoy while you're at it," she added reluctantly. "He did warn us, inadvertently or not, and throwing Portkeys is an awfully ineffective battle strategy. True, it kept us from finding what Voldemort might have stored there, but it also kept the Death Eaters from capturing us. I'd like to ask him some questions."

"I have things I want to ask him, too," said Harry, sounding unusually grim. "If anyone knows where Snape is, Malfoy will. But you're right, he didn't have to warn us. I'll see what I can do."

He flipped over the hourglass and vanished.

Half an hour later -- clearly Harry hadn't internalized the rules of Time Turners, which would have let him return almost before he'd left -- a rush of displaced air signaled an arrival via Apparation. Hermione looked up from running her hand through Ron's hair... and lowered her wand in relief.

Ginny leaned drunkenly on Harry's left shoulder, yelling a slurred tirade into his ear. Draco Malfoy, wandless, pulled his hand off Harry's right arm and stalked to the far side of the clearing. Harry seemed torn between amusement and stress, masked by a sort of giddy elation.

"It worked?" asked Hermione, not quite daring to believe her eyes.

"Yeah," said Harry, helping Ginny sit and lean against a tree. "It worked."

He limped over and handed the Time Turner to Hermione. "Thank you," he said in a hoarse whisper, as the chain shimmered and pooled in her hand.

Hermione felt the chain bite into her skin as her fingers clenched around the hourglass. She closed her eyes and listened to Ginny's exhausted cursing, Malfoy's stream of irritated questions, Harry's ragged breathing, and Ron's soft snores. She could smell fire and smoke lingering in the air brought in with Harry's Apparation, and she could taste blood in her mouth where she'd bitten through her lip in nervous anticipation.

Then she opened her eyes again and tried to fix this clearing, these people, into her mind. Time Turners only worked if you didn't see something. If you saw it, it couldn't be changed.

Nobody was going to change this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Further Note:** In "Vision (Quantum State Collapse)," Hermione explains one of my two theories about Time Turners, in which sight is their key limitation.
> 
> My other theory says that if you _know_ an event happened, you can't change it -- knowledge, in this case, being defined as either personal sensory experience, or being reliably informed by someone or something else (conversation, newspapers, etc.). If you simply _assume_ that an event happened, from circumstantial evidence, you can change it. If you think an event _might_ have happened, but don't let yourself find proof that it occurred, you can change it.
> 
> You can also escape a current situation simply by going back in time and not getting into it again -- when your 'past' self uses the Time Turner and vanishes, your 'current' self continues with whatever you were trying to do. Notice that this doesn't erase the past -- its effects are really more like teleportation than standard time travel. (This 'escape hatch' works for the vision theory as well, by the way.) 
> 
> Anyway, my second theory -- about knowledge being the key -- covers the class Hermione missed after Harry and Ron told her she'd missed it. Because they told her she hadn't been there, she _knew_ she hadn't been there, and thus couldn't go back in time and fix her oversight. For this story, however, I'm handwaving that by saying that either she was too tired to think of going back and attending the class before the twenty-four hour time limit ran out, or she didn't want to change Harry and Ron's memories (and thus delete that whole conversation and give herself even more things to keep straight) over one lesson. So sight, rather than knowledge, becomes the key to changing the past.
> 
> It's all down to quantum dynamics and epistemology, really. :-)


	2. By the Numbers

**Variation and Fugue -- 2, kisses**

The first time Harry kissed Ginny, it felt like waking up and realizing that summer had come when he wasn't paying attention, that ice had melted in painless fire. Later, Ginny told him it was just a kiss -- and frankly, from a technical standpoint, not a very good one. Harry doesn't care. He knows she felt the sunlight too.

The first time Draco kissed anyone, it was Pansy and they were both six years old. He still remembers that fondly, but lately the memory is acquiring tinges of comparison to the first time he kissed Harry -- on both occasions he went into a moment of shock, a panicked "Help, what am I doing, this is crazy!" reaction before he realized that it was safe, he was touching a friend, and nobody was going to use this against him. Somehow he doesn't want to tell Potter that. He'd never live it down.

The first time Ginny kissed Draco, she didn't mean to. She'd come to visit Harry and that _bastard_ was in her boyfriend's flat, sitting _right next to him_ on the sofa, and _touching his hand_. So she knocked him onto the floor, sat on him to pin his skinny arse down, and grabbed his stupid colorless hair to yell in his face. Then she noticed that Harry looked way more turned on than he had any right to. And she kind of liked having Malfoy underneath her. And he had very nicely-shaped lips for a rat-faced bastard. If Harry hadn't grabbed their shoulders and pulled them apart, she's not sure what might have happened. As it was, she was breathless and Draco had blood on his lips where she'd bitten him.

Ginny still feels like sunlight and fire. Harry is safe and never lets go. Draco won't turn from anything wild.

Harry's technique has improved though. Ginny and Draco made sure of that.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Pressure -- 15, stop that**

The thing about being the only girl in a threesome with two boys is that Ginny's the only girl and they're both boys. And sometimes they go off and talk about boy things. This is fine in theory -- Ginny goes off and talks girl stuff with Hermione and Luna and her old roommates -- but Harry and Draco don't talk boy stuff with Ron and Neville, or with Crabbe and Goyle. They talk boy stuff with each other, which is manifestly unfair. She'd never in a million years want to be male herself, and it's not as if she wants to join in, but she hates being left out.

Ginny wishes she could stop being jealous.

The thing about being the only Slytherin in a threesome with two Gryffindors is that Draco's the only Slytherin and they're both Gryffindors. And sometimes he feels like he's beating his head against a granite wall because they just _will not_ understand that the world isn't fair, that you have to know how to work the system, and that not all the unfortunate things in the world are actually fixable. Not everything has to be a matter of Right and Wrong, or Good and Evil, and once in a while, it's all right not to start a crusade. Sometimes it's all right to say, "That's how it goes," toss money toward charity if they're feeling particularly guilty, and realize that their own lives are worth time and attention as well.

Draco wishes he could beat that into their heads.

The thing about being effectively Muggle-born in a threesome with a pureblood witch and wizard is that Harry is effectively Muggle-born, and they're both purebloods. And sometimes they stare at him blankly when he still doesn't understand the nuances of the wizarding world, or they make the most boneheaded mistakes when he takes them into Muggle London. They mean well, but he's trying to straddle two wildly different cultures and never quite feels like he fits into either, and they just don't get it. They can't understand what it was like to go from a despised, slightly peculiar nobody to a powerful, famous wizard overnight; they've always known why his name matters and what his destiny was going to be.

Harry wishes he could take Ginny and Draco and run away.

Some days, they do.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Skin Deep -- 30, touch**

Harry's skin is rough, uneven, and tends to be oily, especially around his hairline and on the backs of his hands. Draco claims this comes from an Italian witch who married into the Potter line three generations back and brought Harry's dark hair along with her.

Draco's skin is dry and loose over his bones; it cracks and bleeds in winter if he isn't careful. Harry asks once if hereditary Slytherin families have snakes in their ancestry, which prompts Draco to wonder if Gryffindors are as bird-brained as their heraldic animal.

They both like Ginny's skin best. Draco likes the way it wraps smoothly over her flesh as he slides his hands along her hips. Harry likes to trace constellations of freckles across her shoulders and down her back, his fingertips skimming bare millimeters away from true contact.

Ginny holds her breath when they let go and doesn't relax until she can feel their attention -- warm, solid, and undeniably real -- press against her through their skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for this chapter was 'tri-part character studies/vignettes.'


	3. Fixation, II

**Touch -- 7, hugs**

"What you have to realize about Harry," Hermione told Ginny once after a DA meeting, "is that nobody's ever hugged him, not since he was a baby. Well, I've hugged him once or twice, but once or twice doesn't count, not for this."

"What's your point? There's nothing wrong with not hanging all over people in public," Ginny said.

Hermione bit her lip. "Of course, but I mean that he doesn't understand physical contact in general. Haven't you noticed that he doesn't touch people?"

Thinking back, Ginny realized that Hermione was right. "That could be a bit awkward," she said. At Hermione's blank look, she touched her left thumb to her fingers, and pushed her right forefinger through the circle.

Hermione turned scarlet. "Ginny! Don't do that! But yes, I see your point. Whoever ends up with him will simply have to move slowly and get him accustomed to little things first... unless she can get his hormones to do the work for her."

The issue didn't come up again for nearly a year, since Ginny was busy with other boys -- after a few months, she settled on Dean Thomas, who was sweet and the most incredible kisser, though that affair eventually ended badly. But in her fifth year, when Harry kissed her in front of the entire common room, she thought that Hermione had been right about the hormones. Later, when Harry dumped her 'for her own good,' she thought that Hermione had been right about him not understanding physical contact, too -- though Hermione should have taken it a step further and said that Harry didn't understand the emotions behind touch either.

She said the right things to make him relax, even while she cursed steadily inside her head. He wanted to keep her from being a target, did he? What the bloody hell did he think Tom's diary had made her! He wanted to keep Voldemort from realizing that he cared about her? Well, it was a few months too late for that, wasn't it!

When Harry took Ron and Hermione to search for Horcruxes, Ginny copied his list of possible hiding places, grabbed Neville and Luna, and started searching from the other end of Harry's list. They met in the middle, naturally, and had a screaming row. It ended when she kissed him, hugged him, and swore that she was going to hold on until she shook all the stupid ideas out of his head.

In retrospect, that might not have been the best way to convince him that hugs were a good thing.

Nevertheless, it worked, and by the end of the war -- when she and Harry overruled Ron and Hermione and decided to trust Draco Malfoy's information on the location of the final Horcrux -- Harry reached for her after the final battle, instead of the other way around.

"I don't believe it," Malfoy said from behind them, picking his way over the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. "Someone actually taught Potter that people aren't covered in contact poisons."

Ginny was too tired and happy to do more than stick her tongue out at him. Then it occurred to her that Malfoy likely hadn't been hugged in quite a long time either -- his parents didn't seem the hugging type, and Snape certainly wasn't. She untangled one arm from Harry.

"Come here," she said. Harry and Malfoy both looked at her as if she'd gone mad. "We won," she said irritably. "Nobody lied, nobody's dead -- except Voldemort -- and if I feel like hugging people, I'm bloody well going to hug them. Now come here."

Malfoy eased an arm around her side and kicked at Harry's feet until he backed off a step. "We can shake hands if you'd rather," he said to Harry, an odd smile on his face.

Harry looked down at the proffered hand, looked back up, and grinned. "Trying again?" Malfoy shrugged. "Oh, why not," said Harry, and they shook hands. Ginny squeezed them both more tightly, and started laughing.

It was a perfect day.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Peace -- 18, clouds**

Sometimes they play Quidditch -- one Snitch, three Seekers, and the open sky.

If you close your eyes, Ginny says, you can steer by the pressure of the sun, the moisture of the clouds, the scream of the wind, and the ice-cold gash of air in your lungs. They blindfold her and she demonstrates, dancing in a swirl of autumn leaves and flirting with a ragged flock of swallows.

You didn't catch the Snitch, Draco says when she descends.

She throws a shower of frost-glazed leaves at him, and Harry leans against the solid reassurance of the earth and laughs.


	4. Grayscale

**After -- 3, giving up**

"You can't win everything," Draco said once. "Sometimes you can't even fight."

Harry had disagreed. He was the first to go -- stroke, at sixty, barely half the years he should have lived. The world mourned spectacularly; heroes were always valued most in absentia.

Draco went next, cursed by a Muggle-born extremist unable to let the war rest. Ginny still can't shake the feeling that he'd welcomed death, that he hadn't wanted to fight anymore.

She's alone, betrayed, and she doesn't know why she can't stop fighting for each day, each breath. But she's never been good at letting go.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Transience -- 10, rent**

Threesomes are inherently unstable, according to common wisdom; breathe on them wrong and they tip into triangles of unrequited lust, or into a couple and an outsider. Threesomes are especially unstable with two men and one woman, since it's harder for men to bite back their screaming monkey instincts and learn to share.

If they're running on borrowed time, dancing faster to keep from falling, whirling against centrifugal motion, then Ginny will pay her interest, swallow her anger, smother her jealousy, and make this damn thing work for one more day, and another, and another, until the balance comes due.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Novocain -- 13, irritating people**

Ron stopped by yesterday, but peacemaking's a lost cause by now. After listening to him go on and on about how she and Harry should come to their senses and get rid of Malfoy, Ginny wondered why she felt nothing more than irritation and boredom. He's her brother, her _favorite_ brother. Shouldn't she be angry that he hates her life?

But he's always hated Draco. She can cry, she can rage, she can break in half between her brother and her lovers, or she can tear out a piece of her heart and let it go.

Everything has a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for this chapter was 'darkish drabbles from Ginny's POV.' (Look, I never said I was imaginative about themes. *wry*)


	5. Fixation, III

**Tabloid -- 25, looking**

When the news breaks, it's the scandal of the decade. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived -- he's never been able to shake that name -- has been living in sin with Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy! Either one of them alone would be news enough -- the Weasley girl's known for outrageous opinions and no sense of shame, while the Malfoy heir is a pardoned Death Eater, and male -- but _both_ of them...

_Witch Weekly_ and the _Daily Prophet_ sell out their entire print runs for weeks as they chronicle the story, dig up the origins of the bizarre ménage à trois, and splash Weasley's past assignations and Malfoy's dubious war history across their front pages. For good measure, they unearth the old speculations about Harry Potter letting Cedric Diggory die on purpose so he could snatch up Diggory's girlfriend for himself, and they give the _Quibbler_ a run for its money in the conspiracy theory field.

The _Quibbler_ is oddly silent. People point to its editors' well-known connections to Potter and Weasley, and spin even wilder theories.

Finally, Rita Skeeter tracks down Potter and his two lovers and -- after losing her Quick Quotes quill to Malfoy's light fingers and being held at the business end of Weasley's wand -- asks him what he was thinking. "That it's nobody's business but ours," he tells her.

"And what's your opinion about the storm of controversy you've roused?" Skeeter asks, leaning forward. Weasley shifts her wand in a meaningful fashion. Malfoy coughs.

Potter shrugs. "I don't care -- you almost never print anything true or important anyway, so I stopped paying attention. You taught me that." Then he smiles. "Besides, your readers only get words and pictures. I have the real thing."

Malfoy coughs harder, and Weasley's mouth quirks into a smile as Potter grabs their hands and Apparates.

Skeeter's interview is published in the next morning's _Daily Prophet_ , and sales explode again.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Transitions -- 28, get out**

"But Mum--"

" _Leave_. I can't believe I raised a daughter who would... would..." Molly Weasley, nearly purple with outrage, groped for words. "And Harry! I took him into this house, treated him like a son, and this is how he repays me! That treacherous _snake!_ "

"Don't you dare speak about Harry like that," said Ginny, struggling to clamp a lid on her temper. She raised her wand -- her mother flinched, and Ginny died a little inside -- and flicked it sharply. " _Accio_. I'll leave. I'll take my things and never darken your door again, if that's what you want. But don't you dare spread gossip about me or Harry, or Draco, and don't you dare blame them for my choices. I'm sorry you had to find out from the newspaper, but this is exactly why I didn't tell you."

She shrank the swarm of clothes, knick-knacks, schoolbooks, and other detritus of eighteen years of life. Then she stuffed them into her bag and stormed out the kitchen door.

She stood in the garden, trying to gather her concentration enough to Apparate without splinching herself. Ten seconds later, the door opened and her father slipped out; behind him, crockery shattered and her mother yelled incoherently.

"Ginny, are you certain--"

"Yes," she snapped. "I thought about this for a long time, and I'm not going to change my mind."

"Your mother--" Arthur Weasley began, and then shook his head. "No. You're too much alike -- that's the problem. You'll have to work this out between yourselves. I don't approve -- don't approve at all," and a rare frown settled onto his face, "but you're a grown witch and it's not my place to interfere. Don't cut us all off because of your mother."

Ginny sighed. She could rage at Mum for weeks, but she'd never been able to stay angry at Dad for more than an hour or two, and usually not even that long. "I'll owl you at work," she said. "It'll save arguments."

"Right, right." The yelling in the kitchen rose to a wordless shriek, and what sounded like the entire good tea service shattered explosively. Her father flinched and looked nervously over his shoulder. "You'd better go." He patted Ginny awkwardly on the shoulder, and then drew her close to kiss her forehead. "I hope they make you happy, at least."

"They do, Dad," said Ginny, reaching up to hug him. "Now go in before Mum breaks so many dishes that she won't have anything left to put dinner on."

Her father waved as he vanished into the house; Ginny wished him luck. Then she left her parents' house and went home.


	6. Something Completely Different

**Fairy Tales -- 4, surprise**

Once upon a time in the kingdom of Ottery St. Catchpole, there lived a poor knight who loved a princess. Now, the princess wasn't particularly rich either -- Ottery St. Catchpole was a small kingdom -- but she was still a princess, and she had six older brothers who weren't interested in adding yet another poor relation to their extensive family. So the knight set out to win renown and incidentally earn some monetary rewards.

He was reasonably successful (the people of Riddle, who had suffered under the oppression of King Voldemort and his dark dragons Bellatrix and Lucius, would have accused him of excessive modesty) and returned home to ask for the princess's hand in marriage.

"You're a bit late for that, mate," said the youngest prince. "Charlie and that giant -- what's his name -- oh yeah, Hagrid -- they decided to breed guard dragons a couple years ago, and some of the older dragons in the mountains got a bit peeved. They took Ginny off to their caves -- said if we took their eggs, they'd take our sister. We gave back the eggs but they still have Ginny."

The knight was not happy about this, but he left his gold at the castle and set off to confront the dragon and win back his love. He traveled for three days until he reached the mountains at the edge of the kingdom, and found the cave where the princess was held captive. The knight dismounted, drew his sword, and approached cautiously.

There was no dragon.

Instead, the princess was drinking tea with a thin, pale man who took one look at the knight's battered armor and turned up his nose. "Is _this_ the best rescuer your family can afford to hire?" he asked.

The princess sighed and stole his scone. "We don't hire rescuers, Draco. This is Sir Harry, the knight I promised to wait for." She smiled at the knight, and it was like the sun bursting through a veil of clouds.

The pale man looked at the knight with a bit more respect. "Sir Harry? So _you're_ the reason I haven't been able to convince Ginevra to run away with me."

The knight was a bit taken aback. "Erm," he said, wondering exactly who this man was.

"If you kill each other, I'll never speak to either of you again," said the princess. "I like you both, and you're alike enough to get along famously once you stop posturing." She hefted the teakettle with a meaningful look.

The knight and the pale man exchanged glances. "Right," said the pale man. "Let's imagine that we've fought and agreed to a truce. But I utterly refuse to live anywhere near that giant or your lunatic brothers. They have no appreciation of dignity."

The princess gave him another meaningful look.

"Excuse me," said the knight, "but are you implying that you're a dragon?"

The pale man sniffed. "Implying? I wouldn't stoop to implications around you -- I wouldn't trust you to have half the intelligence necessary to interpret them. _Yes_ , I'm a dragon." And indeed, as the knight suddenly saw, he was -- his silvery scales gleamed in the afternoon sunlight as he flexed his wings. The knight nearly brandished his sword, but the princess swung the teakettle in warning. The dragon sipped delicately from the teacup in his claws.

The knight dropped into a spare chair and wished he could rub his forehead without taking off his gauntlets or his helmet. He'd thought he was done with adventures. All he'd wanted was to marry and settle down in peace. He hadn't asked for a dragon, let alone a dragon that his love seemed to have become attached to! The knight had a terrible feeling that his previous adventures were only a test for this.

Beside him, the dragon dwindled back into his human shape and the princess refilled his tea.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Daydreams -- 16, pillows**

Harry-kitty had a cream-colored sofa cushion that was all his, and on the days when Miss Petunia had to clean it, he would shed on her crisp white sheets in revenge. He didn't mind being shut in the closet afterward while she changed the sheets, because she understood that a cat had to express his outrage lest he lose his dignity, and she let him drag his cream-colored cushion with him.

Draco-kitty, on the other hand, was a pale, purebred Persian, and was inordinately fond of Miss Cissa's lap -- not only was she warm and likely to pet him while she read her newspaper or chatted with Miss Petunia, but she also tended to wear black skirts. Draco-kitty made a point of sneering at Harry-kitty because _he_ had Miss Cissa's attention while all Harry-kitty had was a sofa cushion.

Ginny-kitty didn't live with Miss Petunia and Miss Cissa, since the ladies weren't interested in breeding more cats and Ginny-kitty was, of course, a _girl_ cat. She lived next door with Miss Molly and spent most of her time out in the garden, chasing butterflies and hunting gnomes. Harry-kitty and Draco-kitty secretly wished they could hunt gnomes as well, but while Harry-kitty often perched on the back of the sofa and stared mournfully out the window, Draco-kitty was much too proud to admit that his life could possibly be missing anything.

And then came the horrible day when Miss Cissa and Miss Petunia decided to stop dancing round the issue -- they ran off and got married. Of course they were disowned, and lost their jobs, and had to rent a flat instead of living in their nice spacious house, and their new flat _didn't allow pets_. What was to become of Harry-kitty and Draco-kitty?

Fortunately, they didn't have to find out. Miss Molly heard of her erstwhile neighbors' plight and offered her house to them, on condition that they let her join the marriage. Miss Cissa and Miss Petunia traded long, considering looks -- Miss Molly's house wasn't nearly as elegant as they would have preferred, and Miss Molly was short and plump instead of tall and thin -- and decided that there were things to be said for comfort, convenience, and a staunch friend.

So Harry-kitty and Draco-kitty got to join Ginny-kitty in the garden, where she taught them how to hunt gnomes and chase butterflies, and they taught her how to claim a spot that perfectly offset her fur. She became inordinately fond of a hunter green afghan that went most becomingly with her russet fur.

And they all lived happily ever after, until the sudden arrival of kittens threw everybody's plans out of kilter...

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Xenophilia -- 14, forbidden**

Harry Potter, of Number 4 Privet Drive, hated his life. He'd spent years as an unpaid servant for his aunt, uncle, and cousin; he'd been forced to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs until he finally outgrew the damned place and convinced his aunt he couldn't do chores with a twisted spine; he'd never had any friends, since his cousin bullied them and drove them off until everyone knew that 'the Potter boy' was odd and to be avoided; and he _still_ had another year before he could get the fuck out of this town.

It wouldn't be forever. Once he left school, he'd head for London, find a job, save some money, and make himself a real life. That would be the best revenge. Harry told himself that every time he wanted to murder his relatives, and he grimly channeled his frustration into whatever odd jobs he could scrounge up, so he'd have something to take with him when he headed out.

On his seventeenth birthday fate threw a wrench into his plans. Just after midnight, a vampire floated up the side of the Dursleys' house and knocked on Harry's window.

Harry shoved on his glasses and peered blearily into the darkness. The vampire, a pale teenager with white-blond hair and a pointed face, attempted to smile disarmingly. His fangs spoiled the effect somewhat. So did the fact that he was floating in midair.

"What the fuck?" said Harry.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Potter," said the vampire, his voice muffled by the glass. "Invite me in."

"Like bloody hell," said Harry, who'd seen enough horror films to have a keen sense of self-preservation. "Even if I'm dreaming -- and I have to be dreaming, because there's no such thing as vampires -- I'm not stupid."

"Good for you," said a female voice from behind him.

Harry spun around, and gaped. Somehow, a redhead dressed in skintight black leather and carrying a glow-in-the-dark sword had appeared in his bedroom.

"What the fuck?" he said again.

"Hello, Harry," said the redhead, sheathing her sword and spreading her hands in a rather ineffective attempt to look harmless. "I'm Ginny Weasley, and I'm a vampire hunter. I'm here to help you summon your soulsword and induct you into the Order."

"What the fuck?" said Harry. He was beginning to feel like a broken record, but he couldn't think of any other adequate response.

The redhead frowned. "The Order of the Phoenix," she said slowly, as if talking to a small child. "The one your mother belonged to. We protect humans from the vampires -- you know, evil creatures that drink blood and kill people."

"My mum didn't kill vampires. Vampires don't exist!" said Harry. "I'm clearly having a very peculiar dream, and I'd like you and the floating man to go away now, thanks." He sat down on his bed and prepared to slip back under the sheet.

"My name is Draco Malfoy, not 'the floating man,'" said the vampire outside the window. "And, incidentally, I'm here to wake your bloodgifts and take you to the Dark Court, so you can take up your father's position. We need all the soldiers we can get before the Dark Lord starts his war on the damned Order." He smirked. "In case you didn't catch the implication, that means your father was a vampire. If vampires didn't exist, _you_ wouldn't exist either, halfblood."

Harry looked from the vampire to the redhead. "Erm. Stop me if I sound crazy, but are you saying that my dad was a vampire and my mum was a vampire hunter, and now you both want me to go off and join your sides of some bizarre supernatural war?"

The redhead and the vampire exchanged long-suffering glances. "I wouldn't put it quite like that," the redhead said eventually, "but yes, that's right. You'll come with me, of course. It's your duty to protect people from the monsters."

"Ah, but how will your Order deal with his bloodthirst?" asked the vampire, leaning elegantly against the window. "It _will_ wake, sooner or later, and you won't have the foggiest idea how to stop him from tearing out the throat of the first person he runs across. Come with me, Harry -- we'll teach you control. And you won't have to kill any innocents, just the self-righteous bastards in the Order. They're the ones who hid you from us, you know. They handed you over to the Dursleys." The vampire smirked.

"Only to keep you from the Dark Lord," the redhead shot back. "He wanted to kill you -- he's the one who killed your parents! Take my hand, Harry. I'll get you out of this place."

Harry looked back and forth between his two visitors. He pinched his arm, winced, and checked to see if either one had vanished. They were still there, staring at him. He groaned.

"I am not deciding anything in the middle of the night when I'm half asleep," he said firmly. "If you both want me this badly, you can meet me in the park two streets down tomorrow evening. Alone. Then you can try to convince me why I should give up my life and head off to fight a war for people I've never heard of and who clearly don't give a damn about me if you've left me here for _seventeen fucking years_." He took off his glasses, set them on his night table, and pulled his sheet up to his chin. "Now get out of my bedroom."

"But--" chorused the redhead and the vampire.

"Out," said Harry. "Or I swear I'll never join either of you." He closed his eyes.

"You always spoil things, Weasley," said the vampire.

"Same to you, Malfoy," retorted the redhead. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course." There was a muffled rush of air -- presumably the redhead disappearing in whatever unnatural way she'd entered his room -- and a soft thump as the vampire pushed away from the window.

Blessed silence descended.

He had to be insane, Harry decided after a minute. Vampires didn't exist. Therefore, vampire hunters didn't exist either, and his parents had been perfectly normal. They'd died in a car crash, not at the hands of some vampire king. There was no such thing as magic, or soulswords, or bloodgifts -- whatever those were -- and he had no idea where his mind had conjured such strange dreams.

He had to admit, though, for two figments of his imagination, the redhead and the vampire had been damn hot.

Harry closed his eyes and hoped he could incorporate them into a better dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for this chapter was 'crack AU.' If I hurt your brain, I'm... actually not sorry at all, since that was sort of the point. Sorry about that. *grin*


	7. Fixation, IV

**Walk the Tightrope -- 17, fever**

_Why Malfoy?_ is always the first question people ask -- it seems to be less embarrassing than _Why a threesome?_ or _Can't you make up your mind?_ So they ask about Draco. What is it about him that keeps Harry and Ginny from a normal (if somewhat explosive and public) relationship? What makes them overlook his family, his war history, the years he spent attempting to bully them at Hogwarts?

_Why not Draco? And fuck off_ , is Ginny's stock answer, occasionally accompanied by a hex or scathing speculation on the questioner's own sexual habits.

Harry tends to shrug and change the subject.

In the only full interview he ever gives on his personal life, he tells Luna he ducks the question because he doesn't know how to answer. Logically (he wrote a chart one time, listed all the positives and negatives, and then tore up the parchment because he's not Hermione and emotions aren't maths) he shouldn't want anything to do with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy's a self-absorbed, self-serving, prejudiced, melodramatic, traitorous, inconsistent, and occasionally hypochondriac bastard. The first time Harry met him, Malfoy didn't manage to say three sentences before he reminded Harry of his cousin Dudley, and a less promising mental association would be hard to imagine. Malfoy was the minor bane of his school years. Malfoy was, directly or indirectly, responsible for Dumbledore's death and the attack on Hogwarts.

By all rights, Harry should hate him.

And yet.

The first time Harry met him, Draco _tried_ to be friendly, which was more than almost anyone had ever done. He made a complete botch of it, of course, but at least he tried. His various attempts to get Harry in trouble or show him up at Hogwarts were mild, all things considered, even when he had Umbridge and the Ministry's authority backing him. He was justly horrified at the results of letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and at the sticking point, he couldn't bring himself to kill Dumbledore. More than that, he switched sides later on; it was his information that led to the discovery of Voldemort's seventh Horcrux, and the final battle.

(Harry doesn't mention the time Draco saved his life during a raid on one of Voldemort's outposts. That story would reveal too many other secrets, and besides, Luna already knows.)

So his history with Malfoy is, if not a wash, at least not as dark as people try to paint it.

That explains the friendship they fell into after the war, Harry supposes. As for the rest, mostly that's nobody's bloody business, and quantifying emotions is a mug's game anyhow. But the thing is, he says to Luna, most people anyone meets are easy to forget. You notice them when they're around, and when they're not, they might as well not exist. Even your best friends, well, sometimes you can go whole days without thinking of them. They don't get under your skin. They don't grab all of your attention. They don't set you on fire.

Draco got under his skin. Not so much at first, not when Harry lumped him in with Dudley as a spoiled brat with stupid prejudices, but when he saw Malfoy alone with his father and realized that maybe he wasn't as spoiled as he pretended; when Lucius Malfoy wound up in Azkaban and Draco threatened to kill Harry because he actually cared about something besides himself; when Malfoy beat him in a fight and then ignored him, like he had more important things to think about; when Draco stood on the tower, facing Dumbledore, looking more lost than anyone Harry had ever seen; when Ginny roped them into a hug after the final battle and Malfoy ducked out as quick as possible, wandering off like he didn't quite think he deserved to be a survivor... Yes. Draco Malfoy got under his skin.

He got under there, and he burned.

As for Ginny, Harry doesn't even pretend to understand the dynamics of her relationship with Malfoy. They like to argue, to gang up on Harry, and to go off and do utterly crazy things now and again. Beyond that, he doesn't ask; it's safer not to know.

But asking _Why Malfoy?_ is the wrong question. You might as well ask _Why Ginny?_ They're equally important, and while he could probably get along without one or the other of them -- probably even without either of them, come to that -- he'd much rather not. They balance each other, and having a third person around cuts the intensity with which they all tend to focus on people who get to them.

Think of it like this, Harry tells Luna: any two of them are like a wildfire, burning everything in sight until there's nothing left but ashes. The third person is what calms the flames, saves the innocent bystanders, and lets the fire _last_.

So why Draco Malfoy?

Because, strange as it sounds (and yes, Harry's fully aware that even three years ago he would've said the world would be a better place if Draco Malfoy dropped dead), Harry can't imagine life without him.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Kept Man -- 27, fluffy things**

Harry woke to the sound of idle conversation and watched his lovers through slivered eyes.

"Say, Weasley -- what ever happened to that hideous miniature Puffskein you used to carry around?" Draco lay on his back with the sheet pulled up high enough to cover the lower half of his face. He'd probably yanked it out from the bottom of the bed again, which would explain why Harry's feet were cold.

On Harry's right, Ginny furrowed her brow, clearly only half-awake. "Oh, Arnold? To be honest, I got distracted during the last year of the war and I gave him to Phlegm -- to Fleur, I mean -- as a belated wedding present. They didn't get on -- veelas are predators, of course, and she terrified Arnold. I thought I'd have to take him back, but then he fell in love with Bill, of all people..."

"Weasley, your family is hopeless. Even your pets have no taste."

"And what does that say about you?" Ginny snapped reflexively.

Draco smirked; Harry's unfocused vision softened the sharp edges of his face. "Are you implying that you have no taste because you keep me, or that I'm your pet and therefore have no taste because I haven't skipped out?"

"Erm..."

"No, don't answer that. Obviously we're both taste-impaired," said Draco, snaking one hand out from his fabric shroud and poking at Harry's nose. "Otherwise we'd have come to our senses ages ago and kicked Potter out of the flat."

"Hey!" Harry caught Draco's fingers in midair and glared fuzzily at the other man. "I'm the one who always gets asked how I put up with the two of--"

"Shut up, Harry," Ginny and Draco said, their voices overlapping in ragged chorus.

Harry smiled. "Make me."


	8. Dystopia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: as per the chapter title, these ficlets get dark.

**Azkaban -- 9, talking over distance**

**1.** There are always screams. Sometimes in the air, sometimes in her head.

**2.** Two cells left, Harry strikes his boot against the stones. The heel is hard rubber. It thunks softly. When he hits the metal bars, it clinks.

**3.** Five cells right, across the walkway, Malfoy sings. His voice is hoarse, cracked and thin, but sweet. She knows the song. It's a lullaby. She used to dream of singing it to her own children.

**4.** "They still let you transform," Malfoy says. "Takes the edge off. Do you fit in the cell, Potter? I slip through the bars -- they won't let me change." She hears the scrape of antlers from the left.

**5.** "This wing holds war criminals from Voldemort's second rising," the guide says. "Draco Malfoy -- he betrayed both sides and was responsible for the attack on Hogwarts. Ginevra Weasley -- she forced noncombatants to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes, which led to their deaths. And Harry Potter -- he turned on the Ministry, after the deaths of Voldemort, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, and was arrested before he could start another war." She snarls obligingly at the pale faces beyond the door.

**6.** Dementors make no sound.

**7.** "You tried," Harry says. "We tried. Not enough. Bastards." Something rattles as Malfoy shifts, unseen.

**8.** "Imagine me kissing you," she says. "I press my mouth to yours and I bite your lip. My hand is under your shirt, reaching down. Can you feel it? That's my hand slipping into your pants, grabbing your cock. You're getting hard. I bite you again, and you touch my breasts, run your fingers in circles around my nipples until they rise. Can you hear me moan? I'm squeezing you now, running my fingers up and down, touching your head, scraping my nails across you. You're hard, you're oozing a little, and I swirl that around under my fingers--" She never uses a name. It wouldn't seem fair.

**9.** There are always moans. Sometimes in the air, sometimes in her head. Sometimes, she hopes, they aren't born of despair.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**The One Where Aliens Make Them Have Sex -- 5, love bites**

Muggles had hundreds of stories of aliens taking over the earth, and were thus somewhat prepared to fight. Wizards had never even thought of the possibility.

This was unfortunate, since the aliens melded magic with their science -- how else could they cross interstellar distances except by blending Apparation with spaceships? -- and quickly subdued the divided humans, in order to exploit the natural resources of the earth. Apparently each star and other celestial body put out a slightly different magical field, and the sun, moon, and earth combined in a way the aliens found particularly useful for certain types of manufacturing processes.

Both the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix were among the first casualties of the resistance movement. The aliens deemed Voldemort most dangerous and killed him on sight; unfamiliar spells remotely detonated his Horcruxes and a portable version of the Veil swallowed his corpse. After that, they began working their way through the prisoners, one public execution per day.

Ron died. Hermione died. Harry waited for the end.

Then the aliens discovered human sexuality. They were fascinated -- their own reproductive systems involved five different genders and for them, sex was more like a tedious committee meeting than anything pleasurable. All executions were canceled and they promptly began training and exporting troublesome humans as exotic entertainment.

The resistance continued to founder.

Ten years after the invasion, Harry Potter walked tiredly into his new quarters, wearing little more than a loincloth and his glasses. (The aliens found human eye corrective measures amusing, especially when they caused complications during stage shows.) His previous owner-employer had just sold him to a bar and strip joint on this backwater space station; the alien had grown tired of watching Harry and Amanda, since they had long since learned the nuances of each other's bodies and had grown inured to shame. The alien wanted something new to watch, and it found Amanda more aesthetically pleasing, so Harry had found himself sold and transported with barely a day's warning to say goodbye to his only human companion of the past five years.

"You'll have more people to talk to at a strip joint, and some of them are bound to be worth getting to know," Amanda had said when they received the transfer papers. "That should help compensate for the audience size. I just hope our lord and master" -- the habitual sarcasm of the title had worn paper-thin over the years -- "hasn't decided on simulated rape as its new kink. I'm not sure I could take that."

"Maybe it wants to try lesbian porn," Harry had suggested as he brushed her hair.

Amanda had laughed. "At least then I'd get a little girl talk. No offense, Harry, but I've missed that. You try, but you can't bitch properly about periods and the lack of chocolate."

Now, two days later, Harry dumped his bag (it contained various costumes, one photo album, a locket that held wisps of red and brown hair, and a bracelet of plastic beads that Amanda had given him) onto his new bed. The bed was big enough for three people, covered in stain-resistant fabric, and adjustable to any degree of firmness. Beyond that, the room was utilitarian, nothing but bare metal and plastic. Harry had a terrible feeling the bed was meant to be equally utilitarian, and spent several minutes examining the walls and corners for cameras. Eventually he gave up and set out to find the common area. Hopefully his new coworkers would be there, and someone would show him the ropes.

The last people he expected to see, when he walked in on what appeared to be a choreography session for a group orgy, were Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy.

Ginny had her legs clamped around a tall man with coffee-colored skin, riding him hard with one hand stretched to the side to tweak and pinch a plump woman's nipples. Malfoy was walking around the mass of naked, sweaty bodies with a critical eye.

"Afua, pull back your lips so we can see you using teeth on Menendez," he said to a woman with blue-black skin. "Menendez, for earth's sake, touch Wu Li like you mean it, not like you think her arse has some hideous disease -- I know what your last owner liked, but I swear we don't use shit or piss in our acts here." A Hispanic man rolled his eyes and rubbed his fingers around an Asian woman's anus with renewed force.

Harry stared. "Malfoy? Ginny? What in earth's name--"

The orgy rehearsal ground to a confused halt, and Ginny and Malfoy gaped in surprise. Ginny was the first to find her voice. "Harry? Is that you? You're really here? You're _alive?_ " She sounded like someone had punched her in the gut, and she wasn't sure if it was an attack or an attempt to save her from choking to death.

Harry promised himself he could break down later; right now, at least one of them ought to stay calm. " I just got sold here," he said, taking a tentative step toward her.

Malfoy snorted. "It figures -- no matter _what_ happens, I can't get away from you people, can I? Well, at least I'll get the satisfaction of breaking you in."

"You will not," snapped Ginny, all traces of confusion abruptly banished as she glared at Malfoy. "I've been here as long as you and I have equal rights as a trainer. Harry's mine." She untangled herself from the coffee-colored man and the plump woman with heavy breasts and stomped over to shake her finger in Malfoy's face.

"In your dreams, Weasley," said Malfoy with a sneer.

Afua and the plump woman giggled quietly in the background, while the coffee-colored man wandered over to the water dispenser. Wu Li just shook her head and lay back with a sigh.

Menendez sent Harry a considering look. "You knew them before?" he asked in a heavy Spanish accent. Harry nodded, still trying to cope with the idea of Ginny and _Malfoy_ fighting over him. Perhaps he'd slipped into an alternate world during that last starflight?

"I pity you, for carrying the weight of their pasts," said Menendez, "but not so much that I will pretend not to be grateful that you distract them from the rest of us. Be welcome." 

"Hey!" said Ginny, storming over and yanking on Menendez's arm before Harry could shake his hand. "No touching, not until I get him. I waited _years_ for this, and I thought I'd lost my chance forever -- I won't let you weasel away a second time!"

"Er, Ginny--" Harry began, and then jumped as Malfoy pinched his arse.

"Back off, Draco! I told you, you can't have Harry before me," said Ginny. Then she smirked -- Harry wondered if she knew how much her smile resembled Malfoy's old smug expression. "But... we could break him in together. I'm willing to bend that far."

"Excuse me! Don't I get a choice?" protested Harry.

"No. Now be quiet, Potter, and let me think." Malfoy looked Harry up and down, met Ginny's eyes for a long moment, and then nodded. "Fine. My room -- I still have restraints set up from last night."

"Right. Come on, Harry."

As Ginny dragged him down a metal corridor, Harry wondered which star, with what particular unfortunate magical field, had been shining at his birth to doom him to this life.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Quietus -- 21, naptime**

November 16th, and the war is going badly.

The Spanish Ministry has signed a treaty of alliance with Voldemort. He now holds England, and France, and Germany, and Poland, and most of eastern and central Europe. Via Russia, his grip extends -- albeit tenuously -- across northern Asia and is encroaching upon China and various former Soviet republics. Switzerland remains obstinately neutral. Italy will fall soon, Greece is desperate enough to make common cause with Turkey, and North Africa is being undermined from within. Wizards from the Americas have no experience fighting Voldemort's style of war -- they expect battles, not terrorist strikes, and they are, in any event, ultimately helpless to chop off the serpent's head.

We destroyed the last Horcrux, and discovered that Voldemort had created more. Seven is not the only magically powerful number. Nine is, as well. So is thirteen. His body is more snake than human these days, but he lives -- or is animate, in a ghastly parody of life -- and his power is as great as ever.

More times than I can count, Harry has barely escaped certain death. One day, mostly likely soon, his luck will fail. He will die, and our hope -- already a beaten, tenuous thing -- will perish with him.

This must not happen.

I have an idea. It first occurred to me a year ago, on the anniversary of Tonks's death, but I held my tongue; it is reprehensible, and unthinkable, and carries far too great a cost. And yet...

No. We fight a monster. We must not become him. We must not let him reshape the entire world in his image.

\---------------

November 23rd, and the war is going badly.

Hermione lost three fingers yesterday. She forced a smile through the numbing potions and said it balanced the half a foot she left in Venice two years ago. Now, she says, all she needs is a scar on her lower back to match the one that slashes over the bridge of her nose, and she will be perfectly asymmetrically symmetrical.

I told her to sleep and notified Ron.

They are still so young, all of them, who took up the fight after the collapse of the Ministry and the destruction of the Order. What sort of lives can they make for themselves after this horror? How can they still hope, after losing their childhoods to this war, this struggle that our generation unforgivably failed to finish?

Already they abandon the structures of our society. They have no laws, only the rule of strength and Harry's commands. They have no religion except the superstitions of Lavender and the Patil sisters, who perform animal sacrifices and host ritual orgies every new moon to raise power and woo the dark spirits to us instead of Voldemort. They have no morals, no shame: Ron and Hermione are together, but the one time I raised the question of marriage, they treated me to blank stares. Since Neville's death, Luna has taken to visiting the wounded as a very earthly angel of mercy; she claims sexual intercourse is useful in stimulating her attempts to divine the location of Voldemort's latest Horcruxes and targets -- life energy to resonate in contrast to death. And Harry...

I could understand Ginny. I suppose I could even understand Draco Malfoy, though he is male, a master of Dark Arts, and a traitor twice over. (Sirius, rest him, was given to certain experiments and I learned not to judge.) But how the three of them fit together is beyond me. It is even more beyond me that nobody any longer thinks to protest Harry's involvement with an imperfectly reformed Death Eater.

Perhaps...

No. Luna has discovered a Horcrux -- the twelfth -- and the Italian wizards are standing unexpectedly firm with aid from America and Brazil. I will say nothing.

\---------------

November 27th, and the war has gone to hell.

Forgive me.

We lost Luna. She destroyed the Horcrux, but it erupted in clinging flames, and none of our efforts could douse them in time.

She smiled as she burned. I will remember that smile until I die.

That may not be much longer, now.

Without Luna, we have no way to find the thirteenth Horcrux.

The children have withdrawn to the comfort of each others' bodies, in the old instinctive urge to assert life in the face of death. I stumbled across Harry and his lovers on top of Luna's divination table, knocking her charts and cards to the floor. They noted my presence, and dismissed me, untroubled by any observation. They scratched and bit each other like wild things, like birds of prey tearing into steaming corpses.

This is not my world.

The full moon is in three days. I asked Harry to Apparate me to one of Voldemort's strongholds and release me to do what damage I may while my reason sleeps and the beast has free reign. He refused.

I will not speak against him. Not now. But I do not want to see more of them die.

I have seen my fill and more of death. I want peace.

Tomorrow, I will tell Harry my idea.

\---------------

November 28th, and the war is, perhaps, in flux.

Harry accepted.

This is my idea: until we find and destroy his final Horcrux, Voldemort cannot be killed. Harry, on the other hand, is constantly vulnerable. Furthermore, Voldemort can still split his soul and create more insurance against his death.

Since only Harry can kill Voldemort, we need to ensure his survival.

The obvious solution is a Horcrux.

Voldemort will never expect the move; he considers us too squeamish to think of the idea, let alone consider and implement it. Even six months ago, I would have agreed. But now... I cannot see any other way. One crack in Harry's soul seems little enough against the cost of Voldemort's rule and eventual victory. And Harry has people to bandage his wounds, to shore up any gaps in his conscience that appear after the ritual. Even now, even as damaged and twisted as we have become, that care -- that love -- may be enough to keep him from sliding further toward the dark. If not... to be honest, that possibility matters little to me. I will not be here to watch him fall.

I am to be the victim.

We perform the rite tomorrow, on the eve of the full moon.

\---------------

November 29th, and the war...

I find I no longer care about the war. Oddly, the act of sacrifice has removed the lingering sense of responsibility I felt toward the children, the national resistance fronts, the collaborators who slip us the little aid they can eke past the Death Eaters, and all the others who struggle, in ways great and small, against Voldemort.

I am going to see Sirius again, and Tonks. I am going to see James and Lily. I am going to see my parents. I am going to see Dumbledore, and Minerva, and even Snape and Peter.

The room is dark, lit only by a ring of candles surrounding a clean patch of concrete. I stand in the center of the circle; Harry faces me, flames lighting his face from beneath. Ginny and Draco flank him, and Ron and Hermione stand behind, ready to catch him if magical or spiritual backlash overcomes him.

Harry asked me for a personal possession to use as the repository of his soul, so he would remember.

I have no personal possessions. I gave him a hoof pick Sirius used on Buckbeak, and which Tonks stole from his room to use as a hairpin. It is the only memento I have managed to save through these past years, and that only because it makes a handy lock pick and last-ditch weapon in situations where magic would be detected. I explained its significance. Harry nodded.

He draws his wand.

I close my eyes.

This world has become hell; Voldemort has made it so, and too often we cooperated or did not resist. I want no part of it any longer. Let those who inherit the earth find ways to heal both it and themselves.

I renounce my guilt, and my shame.

I am finished.

I am going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for this chapter was, obviously, 'dystopian future,' though I admit that "The One Where Aliens Make Them Have Sex" could probably fit equally well under 'crack AU.' I made a judgment call based on the underlying darkness of the premise rather than the surrealism of the reunion scene. The full moon dates in "Quietus" are accurate for 2001.


	9. Fixation, V

**Domesticity -- 1, bloodlines**

"Weasley? You have to get pregnant, and it has to be mine."

"The hell I do!"

"Hell has nothing to do with it. Listen, I don't care if Tonks inherits the Black properties and investments -- oddly enough, my great-aunt neglected to write a clause forbidding marriage to a werewolf -- but there is no way on earth I'll let the Malfoy estate go to my other lunatic relatives or fall into the Ministry's clutches. I need an heir."

"And Harry doesn't? I don't see hordes of Potters clamoring to inherit _his_ estate."

"Potter doesn't care; I do."

"I am in the room, Malfoy -- try asking what I care about instead of making assumptions. Besides, there are other reasons to want children."

"Yeah, _some_ of us aren't slaves to money and lunatic breeding programs, ferret-boy."

"Do I call either of you names anymore? Wait, don't answer that. Look, you can think whatever you want about my reasons, but this is important to me. And trust me, you don't want Ministry bureaucrats to get their slimy fingers on some of the things in my family's vaults. Besides, I think I'd be a marvelous father."

"You? A good father? Have you been Confounded lately, Malfoy?"

"...Harry, shut it. Look, Draco, I'm not saying no. But I categorically refuse to have any children _now_. Ask me again in a few years and we'll see."

"Ginny--"

"That's final. And if I catch you interfering with my contraceptive potions, or _you_ going after him for being raised as a pureblood, you will _suffer_."

"Spoilsport."

"And proud of it. Now fuck off and let me get some peace."

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**In the Bleak Midwinter -- 23, if it wasn't you...**

"Gabrielle Delacour."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Veelas. What _is_ it with men and veelas?"

"That's not it," said Harry, setting down his mug of cider. "She's smart, she's sweet, she likes my sense of humor--"

"What sense of humor?" Draco and Ginny chorused, with Harry irritably mouthing the words along with them.

"Someday you'll realize that that's not funny anymore," Harry said, "and I'll make you regret spinning the joke out all these years."

Draco smirked at him, unfazed -- if Harry actually minded, he would have attempted revenge a long time ago. "I'm quivering in fear. But anyway, what about you, Ginny? Who would you pick?"

Ginny tilted her head back to rest on the arm of the sofa and wrapped the afghan more tightly around her knees. "Hermione." She caught Draco's disbelieving stare and waved her fingers dismissively. "No, really -- I bet I could steal her from Ron if I cared enough to try, and if you'd ever seen her drunk you'd know why she'd be worth it."

Draco considered this. "There is something about her eyes when she's angry, but she has no sense of proportion in her responses. I'd rather not get slapped every time I try to get a reaction."

Harry kicked idly at his shoulder, and Draco rolled a few inches further from the sofa, wriggling into the deep pile carpet.

"And you, Draco? I always fancied you with Blaise Zabini -- for aesthetic reasons, you know. You two would make an even better color contrast than you and Harry."

Draco propped himself up on his elbows and stared out the window; bare branches scraped against the glass as the wind flung November rain toward their flat. "Pansy," he said finally. "She was a royal bitch sometimes, and I couldn't stand her laugh, but we grew up together. I still expect her to Floo in some days. I wish she'd listened when we had a chance."

"You can't save everyone."

"You're a fine one to talk, Mister Walking-Hero-Complex." Harry winced and reached for his cider. Ginny extended her afghan-wrapped feet across the sofa to rest against Harry's thigh, and stared pointedly at Draco. He sighed and rolled back to lie on top of Harry's feet in unspoken apology. "Yes, I know. But still."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Still."

They listened to the wind in silence.


	10. Spiral Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have directly quoted or closely paraphrased a minor portion of CoS and significant portions of PS/SS in this chapter. There is, in fact, a reason for that -- and I am not claiming JKR's words as my own; far from it! -- so please do not jump down my throat and accuse me of plagiarism.

**The Rules of the Game -- 24, dreaming**

The Yule Ball was not nearly as interesting as Ginny had hoped.

She'd accepted Neville's invitation because she'd been sure there was no way Harry would ask her. Besides, she liked dancing (well, she liked _pretending_ to dance with a partner, when Mum let her tune the wizarding wireless to interesting channels), she knew it would drive her roommates mad with envy (well, Jia-li and Susan anyhow -- you could never tell how Gwen would react to girly things, and Apple would only sniff and turn back to her books), and at least this way she'd get to see Harry. She might even work up the courage to ask him for one dance; that wouldn't be too ungrateful to Neville. Ginny spent a few pleasant hours daydreaming about how that might play out.

Reality was less forgiving. The food had been lovely, but the dancing... Ginny concealed a wince as Neville sidestepped to avoid Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, and trod on her foot _again_.

She looked around, trying to spot Harry. He'd plodded through the first dance with Parvati Patil, but then he'd gone off to sit with Ron, whereupon Parvati had attached herself to an indecently handsome boy from Beauxbatons. Ginny thought that was incredibly rude, especially since Parvati had most likely only agreed to come with Harry because nabbing him would make all the other Hogwarts girls jealous, and not because she actually liked him. (Yes, her own reasons for coming with Neville were equally mercenary, but at least _she_ was sticking by him. Mostly.)

Harry and Ron were sitting at a corner table, as far from the dance floor as they could get and still be in the Great Hall. They were hunched over, heads close together, clearly talking about something secret or a bit dodgy. Parvati and her Ravenclaw sister were nowhere in sight.

The Weird Sisters finished their song, and Ginny drew a deep breath. It was now or never.

"Er, Neville?"

Neville looked up from his fierce concentration on his feet and blinked. "Yes? I'm sorry I keep stepping on you -- I'm trying not to, but it's hard. Then I remember that I ought to talk to you, and I lose track of my feet, and after I get the pattern back I forget to say anything." He looked over toward the tables. "Do you want to sit down? Or have a drink?"

Ginny tugged one strand of hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this. "Actually, I wanted to talk to Ron and Harry. I don't think they're having a good time."

She pointed, and Neville followed her gaze. "Oh. I see. Yes, let's go say hello."

Neville, Ginny thought, was a wonderful person, and if she found a spell to switch her feelings from Harry to someone else (which was looking like a better and better option, since he obviously forgot her existence ninety percent of the time), she could do a lot worse than Neville. She felt horribly guilty for what she was planning.

"--fought for Grindelwald, of course. He moved them to the continent, and any left here were hunted down -- people thought they were working for him, see -- and the Ministry's funny about non-humans anyway," Ron was saying in a low tone. "You remember what happened to Professor Lupin, and he's human most of the time. If it got out about Hagrid's mother--"

Ginny cleared her throat. Ron jerked his head up, eyes wide. "Ginny! Neville! What're you doing over here?"

"Are you going to interrogate me like Percy?" she asked, fixing her hands on her hips and giving him a disparaging look (which she'd privately taken to calling the Stare of Ultimate Disdain, because it _was_ , and because capital letters were fun). "Shove over, I want to sit down. Hi, Harry."

"Hi," said Harry. There was a drawn-out silence, and then he said, "Did you know Hermione was coming here with Krum?"

Ron's face darkened, and Ginny felt like kicking Harry. "Yes, I knew, and no, it wasn't any of your business, especially once she asked me not to tell anyone. Ron, shut it -- whatever you're going to say, I don't want to hear." She looked sidelong at Neville, and drew up her courage. "Anyhow, I noticed you two sitting here like lumps, and I wanted to ask you to dance -- both of you -- because who knows if we'll ever have another ball like this. Then Neville and I will leave you to be sour old men together."

Neville blinked, but earned her eternal gratitude for nodding and saying, "Right. I need a break -- dancing is hard -- and you won't step on Ginny's feet as much as I do."

Harry and Ron exchanged looks, and then Ron slumped back in his chair. "Oh, go on. But I'm staying right here -- like bloody hell am I going to make an idiot of myself dancing with my _sister_ in _these_ robes."

"You can make an idiot of yourself just by breathing," snapped Ginny, rising to her feet. She grabbed Harry's hand before she could let herself think about what she was doing. He shrugged and followed her from the table.

The Weird Sisters were halfway through a rather fast and complicated song whose beat Ginny liked, but one look at Harry's panicked expression doused her dreams of trying out spins or fancy footwork. She slowed down so they wouldn't reach the dance floor too quickly.

"It'll probably be a slow song next," she said. "You put one hand on my waist and keep hold of the other, and we step back and forth and go in circles. The trick is not to think about it -- that's where Neville goes wrong."

"Right," said Harry. Gingerly, he put his free hand on her waist. Ginny stifled a giggle.

The music changed, and they stepped out onto the dance floor. After a few cautious turns, Harry settled into the rhythm and began looking around at the other couples. Something behind Ginny caught his attention; he fixed his eyes about two inches over her head and seemed to drift into a sort of daydream.

Ginny followed his gaze and discovered herself looking at Cedric Diggory, dancing with the Ravenclaw Seeker Harry was sweet on -- Cho Chang. She fought a brief, vicious war with her temper, and managed not to deliberately tread on Harry's foot.

"I don't care what you do on your own time," she said coldly, "but it's awfully rude to watch some other girl instead of the person you're dancing with."

Harry flinched, flushed, and jerked his eyes down to aim at his feet. "Sorry," he mumbled, and drifted off again, this time into a brown study.

Crush or no crush, Ginny decided, Harry was hopeless. When this song finished, she was going to take Neville, get some drinks, and have a proper conversation with a boy whose brains weren't entirely composed of porridge. She could stick to admiring Harry's flying and heroics from afar.

Just as the song wavered to a close, something sharp and pointed slammed into her back -- she stumbled forward and fell onto Harry's shoulder.

"Oh, how clumsy of me. I'm so sorry, Potter -- have I hurt your feelings? Do you need a tissue?" said a snide voice from behind her, accompanied by smug giggles.

"Malfoy," growled Harry, absently helping Ginny detangle her feet from his. "Go away."

Draco Malfoy ran a hand down his high-collared black robes, as if brushing off nonexistent dust or the contamination of a lesser being's touch. "Why should I? I have as much right to be here as you do -- possibly more, since I'm not here under false pretenses. We all know who the _real_ Hogwarts champion is, and who's only grabbing for attention. And now you've abandoned your partner -- wasn't Patil pretty enough for you?" He eyed Ginny appraisingly. "I don't think you've traded up."

Pansy Parkinson, clinging to Draco's arm, giggled again. "Parvati, at least, has clothes sense," she said, tossing her hair haughtily.

"And I, at least, know when to lay off the make-up, you clown-faced twit," snapped Ginny, a flush burning across her face and ears. "Back off, or I swear I'll hex you."

"Bitch," hissed Pansy, and then fluttered her eyes at Draco. "Darling, you heard what she said! Won't you defend me?"

There was a tiny gap between Pansy's plea and Draco's reaction, in which Ginny almost thought he rolled his eyes at Pansy's entirely unconvincing damsel-in-distress act. Then he sneered, and she decided she'd been imagining things. "Threatening to hex students is against school rules," he drawled. "I should report you to Professor Snape."

There was something amusing about the way Slytherins passed responsibility up a chain until they found someone suitably scary to lend teeth to their threats, thought Ginny. On the other hand -- she yanked on Harry's arm, to keep him from drawing his wand, and deliberately trod on his foot -- there was something to be said for keeping out of trouble.

Harry settled back, leaving his wand safely in his pocket. "Blackmail is against the rules, too. I bet Professor Moody would be interested in hearing about this conversation."

Take that, Draco Malfoy, thought Ginny, as Harry put his free hand around her waist and spun them back into the press of the dance floor, ignoring the Slytherins.

Three songs and hardly any conversation later, Harry declared that he'd danced more than he'd ever meant to dance in his life, and he was done for the night. Ginny sighed, but she let him lead her back to the isolated table where Ron and Neville were arguing (well, Ron was arguing and Neville was half-heartedly trying to interrupt his tirade) about whether Divination was worth anything even though Professor Trelawney was mostly a fraud.

The Yule Ball still hadn't been as interesting as she'd hoped it would be, but it had ended up a lot better than she'd feared.

\---------------

Two days later, as Pansy Parkinson walked into the Great Hall for a late lunch, someone hexed her to look like a Muggle clown. Nearly hysterical with anger and humiliation -- at least a hundred people had seen her in the Great Hall and another thirty had caught glimpses of her face during her mad dash to the hospital wing -- Pansy accused Ginny.

Ginny swore she'd been in the library at the time, studying for Herbology and Astronomy. Two fellow third-years confirmed her alibi.

Pansy claimed house bias.

Ginny pointed out that her study partners were a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw, not Gryffindors, and anyhow, why would she be stupid enough to use a hex Pansy would recognize? Probably someone had overheard their argument at the Yule Ball and was using Ginny as a scapegoat.

Pansy slunk off, fuming.

The next day, a school owl delivered an anonymous letter to Ginny during breakfast.

_"Very smooth,"_ it said, _"but not smooth enough. Since I'm the one she screeches at when she wants someone to fix things, attacking Pansy is an indirect attack on me. Unless you want me to hex Potter, Pansy's off limits -- and I won't go after Potter in the open, like usual. If I'm playing against you, we'll play by your rules."_

Ginny stared across the Great Hall in shock.

Draco Malfoy sneered back, but one eye closed in a wink.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Ripples in a Pool -- 26, hidden**

"Right," said the dwarf, sitting on Harry's ankles. "Here is your singing valentine:

_"His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad,_   
_"His hair is as dark as a blackboard._   
_"I wish he were mine, he's really divine,_   
_"The hero who conquered the Dark Lord."_

Harry would have given all the gold in Gringotts to evaporate on the spot. Trying valiantly to laugh along with everyone else, he got up, his feet numb from the weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his best to disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with mirth.

"Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now," he said, shooing some of the younger students away. " _And_ you, Malfoy--"

Harry, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up something, which he gleefully showed to Crabbe and Goyle. He'd got Riddle's diary, Harry realized.

"Give that back," said Harry quietly.

Malfoy ignored him. "Wonder what Potter's written in this?" he said loudly, obviously thinking he'd found Harry's own diary. A hush fell over the onlookers. Against the wall, Ginny Weasley was staring from the diary to Harry, looking terrified.

"Hand it over, Malfoy," said Percy sternly.

"When I've had a look." Malfoy waved the diary tauntingly at Harry, leering, and that was the last straw.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " shouted Harry, and the diary shot out of Malfoy's hand into the air, just as Lockhart's wand had done during the Dueling Club. Harry thought Malfoy looked just as stupefied as Lockhart had done, and he rather wished he got to see that more often. Beside him, Ron caught the diary and handed it back to Harry; he put it into his torn bag.

"Harry!" said Percy. " No magic in the corridors -- I'll have to report this, you know!"

But Harry didn't care; getting one-up on Malfoy was worth five points from Gryffindor any day. Malfoy was seething, and as Ginny Weasley sneaked by him, he said loudly, "I don't think Potter liked your valentine much!"

Ginny blanched, covered her face with her hands -- and tripped over Malfoy's outstretched foot as she tried to run.

"Bastard!" snarled Ron, pulling out his wand, but Harry shoved him back. Ron didn't need to spend the whole of Charms belching slugs from a backfired spell.

"I liked it fine," Harry heard himself say as he pointed his wand at Malfoy. "I bet you couldn't write a poem half that good, and you'd never dare to send it to anyone. Ginny's worth a hundred of you."

Malfoy flushed pink and sputtered. Beside him, Ginny made a small noise of surprise, halfway between a squeak and a leaking teakettle. Keeping a wary eye on Malfoy, Harry hurried over and offered his hand so she could steady herself.

"But-- but I didn't write it," said Ginny as she stepped back and straightened her robe. "I just felt bad that you were embarrassed, and then he said-- I'm sorry! I'll go now. Thanks." She ducked behind Harry, brushing against his bag, and vanished into a nearby classroom.

Harry and Malfoy stared at each other for a long moment, before Percy stepped forward, grabbed Harry's arm, and hauled him away. "Malfoy, five points off for assaulting another student. Now _get to class_ , all of you!"

As he walked toward Professor Flitwick's room, Harry wondered who had written the valentine if Ginny hadn't. Now that he thought of it, Gryffindors didn't usually call Voldemort the Dark Lord. They called him You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He supposed those were harder to rhyme, but still... it was suspicious.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that it wasn't until he unpacked his bag that evening that he realized Riddle's diary was gone.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**More Subtle Than Any Beast of the Field -- 6, if only**

Harry Potter, of Number 4 Privet Drive, stood outside a shop called Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, and felt nervous. Today was his eleventh birthday, and at midnight a giant had rescued him from his aunt and uncle, told him his parents had been a witch and wizard, and explained that Harry was a wizard, too. He was going to go to a magic school called Hogwarts, and his whole life was going to change.

He was glad to get away from the Dursleys, but he wasn't completely sure about being a wizard. Hagrid, the giant, seemed to think everything would be just fine, though, and his enthusiasm was catching. So Harry had found himself in Diagon Alley, a magical shopping district hidden in the middle of London, ready to buy supplies for the coming school year.

Diagon Alley was overwhelming, even with Hagrid to explain things as they went along. Now that Hagrid had gone off on a private errand, Harry felt out of place and a little sick to his stomach. Still, anything was better than going back to the Dursleys. He went inside the robe shop and looked around, wondering what to do.

A squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve hurried over and introduced herself as Madam Malkin. "Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot here -- another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the boy. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"My father's next door buying my books and my mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own -- I might try to smuggle one in somehow -- wouldn't you?"

Harry shrugged, and then felt horribly embarrassed when Madam Malkin said, sharply, "Stop moving while I work."

The boy frowned and said, "It isn't as though you're pinning things to his shoulders right now." Madam Malkin huffed under her breath, and the boy turned back to Harry. "Anyway, have _you_ got your own broom?"

"No," said Harry, suddenly wishing that he did.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be. He desperately wished Hagrid had explained more before leaving, since he didn't want to look stupid in front of a person who was actually willing to take his side.

"Pity," the boy said. " _I_ play Quidditch -- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No," said Harry. His stomach sank; he felt more stupid by the minute.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they," the boy said generously, "but I'm sure I'll be in Slytherin; all our family have been. Ravenclaw might be all right, but imagine being in Hufflepuff -- I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Oh," said Harry, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting.

"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to have something worthwhile to contribute. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"No, he's the gamekeeper," said Harry. "Servants cook and scrub floors -- I don't think Hagrid does that."

"I suppose you're right," said the boy, looking a bit surprised to be corrected. "I heard he's a sort of _savage_ , though -- lives in a hut on the school grounds and can't do proper magic. Is that true?"

Harry was torn. If he said Hagrid could do magic, then his rescuer could get in trouble, but if he didn't, then this boy would keep thinking Hagrid was... was 'not the right sort,' as Aunt Petunia said. "Not exactly," he said after a moment. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course!" said the boy. "I couldn't smuggle a broom into Hogwarts if I couldn't, right?" Harry looked pointedly at Madam Malkin and the witch fussing over the boy's hemline. The boy flushed and said, "Well, I didn't say _how_ I'd smuggle it in!"

"Right," said Harry. "I'll tell you some other time."

"Oh, all right," the boy said irritably. "Why is he with you, anyway? Couldn't your parents come?"

"They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel like going into the matter right now.

"Sorry," said the boy. He didn't sound particularly sympathetic, but, thought Harry, at least that was more honest than people who went syrupy and cooed over him when they learned he was an orphan. "But they were _our_ kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and a wizard, if that's what you mean."

The boy nodded. "That's good. I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same -- they haven't been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine! They just don't fit in properly, not like the old wizarding families, and it makes a mess for everyone. What's your surname, anyway?"

Before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and whipped the robe over his head so Harry couldn't have talked if he'd wanted to.

"I'm Harry," he said once he'd straightened his glasses and stepped down from the stool.

"I'm Draco," the boy said. "I suppose I'll see you at Hogwarts -- you'll have to tell me about Hagrid then."

"Right," said Harry, and left before he had to answer any more questions.

He was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts), and Hagrid seemed to notice.

"What's up?" he asked, frowning through his beard.

"Nothing," Harry lied. Then he changed his mind. "The boy in the shop -- he said people from Muggle families, people who don't know about Hogwarts, shouldn't be let in. He says they don't fit in properly, that it's a mess--"

"Yer not _from_ a Muggle family," Hagrid interrupted. "If he'd know who ye _were_ \-- he's grown up known' yer name if his parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it. Some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line o' Muggles -- look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"

That was nice, but it wasn't really an answer, Harry thought. Just because he could do magic didn't mean wizards would want him any more than the Dursleys. "He talked about houses, too," he said. "Slytherin, Hufflepuff -- what are they?"

"School houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but--"

"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff," said Harry gloomily. He certainly felt like an idiot today.

"Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," said Hagrid darkly. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."

"Vol-- sorry, You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?"

"Years an' years ago," said Hagrid, in a tone that said he'd spoken his last word on the topic.

"Oh," said Harry. He liked Hagrid, but the giant didn't seem like the smartest person he'd met, and just because somebody believed something didn't make it true. Everyone at school thought Harry was funny in the head, just because the Dursleys said so, and that wasn't true. If all the evil wizards and witches came from Slytherin, wouldn't people have shut down the house years ago? Besides, that boy -- Draco -- hadn't seemed evil, even if he had funny ideas about Muggles. He'd stood up for Harry, after all, which was more than anyone except Hagrid had ever bothered to do.

Then Harry thought of another question. "What's Quidditch?"

"It's our sport, wizard sport," said Hagrid, sounding more cheerful. "It's like -- like football, in the Muggle world, I hear. Everyone follows Quidditch -- played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls -- sorta hard ter explain the rules."

"Oh," said Harry again, and let Hagrid lead him off to buy parchment, quills, and ink, and then to a bookstore called Flourish and Blotts, where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books. Hagrid wouldn't let him buy a book of curses to use on his cousin Dudley, and hustled him off to get the rest of his supplies instead: a cauldron, scales, potion ingredients, an owl (which Hagrid insisted on paying for, saying it was a birthday present), and a wand.

Harry left Ollivanders wand shop feeling even more thoughtful. His wand -- "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple," according to Mr. Ollivander -- was the twin to Voldemort's wand, the same wand that killed his parents and gave him his scar. "We must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter," Ollivander had said. "After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things -- terrible, yes, but great."

Harry really wasn't sure he'd fit in properly in the wizarding world.

\---------------

On September first, the Dursleys dropped Harry off at King's Cross on their way to get Dudley's new tail removed. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

"Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine, platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it yet, do they?" He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, there was nothing at all.

"Have a good term," said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry turned and saw the Dursleys drive away; all three of them were laughing. Harry's mouth went rather dry. What was he going to do? He had no idea where to go, and he was starting to attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig, his owl.

He'd have to ask someone, he decided. But the guard he stopped had never heard of Hogwarts -- Harry didn't dare mention platform nine and three-quarters -- and insisted there wasn't any train leaving at eleven o'clock. Harry was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts, and he had no idea how to do it. He was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizarding money, and a large owl.

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector's stand between platforms nine and ten.

At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"--packed with Muggles, of course--"

Harry swung around. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry's in front of him -- and they had an _owl_. Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. He didn't want to ask for help, not after learning that some wizards didn't like people from Muggle families, but maybe he could find the platform by watching them. They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

"Now, what's the new platform number?" asked the boys' mother.

"Nine and three-quarters!" piped a small girl, also redheaded, who was holding her hand. "Mum, can't I go--"

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet," the woman said briskly. "All right, Percy, you go first."

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed whatever was going to happen -- but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists swarmed in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

"Fred, you next," the plump woman said.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George," said the boy. "Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you _tell_ I'm George?"

"Sorry, George, dear."

"Only joking, I am Fred," said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have listened, because a second later he was gone -- but how had he done it? Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier -- he was almost there -- and then, quite suddenly, he wasn't anywhere.

There was nothing else for it. Feeling a complete idiot, Harry pushed his trunk a bit nearer to the family and said, "Excuse me." The plump woman turned, and the girl stared curiously at him.

"Hello, dear," said the woman. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too." She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

"Yes," said Harry. "The thing is -- the thing is, I don't know how to--"

"How to get onto the platform?" she said kindly. Harry nodded. "Not to worry," she said. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop, and don't be scared you'll crash into it; that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

"I always shut my eyes," said the girl, "so I can't see how close I am." She was still staring at him.

"Er, okay," said Harry, and then added, "Thanks." He pushed his trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid.

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash right into the barrier and then he'd be in trouble. Leaning forward on his cart, he broke into a heavy run -- the barrier was coming nearer and nearer -- he wouldn't be able to stop -- the cart was out of control -- he was a foot away -- he closed his eyes and held his breath for the crash--

It didn't come. He kept running. He opened his eyes.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said 'Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock.' Harry slowed his cart and looked behind him; there was a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_ on it. He had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks. The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the windows to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Harry wondered if the boy from Madam Malkin's was already on the train.

"You made it, dear," said the plump woman, coming up behind him. "Let's find you and Ron a compartment." Harry swallowed his surprise and pushed his cart off down the platform, following her and the gangling boy.

The girl fell back to walk beside him. "Are you Muggle-born?" she asked. "My best friend's father was a Muggle, but I've never met anyone who was _really_ Muggle-born. What are Muggles like? Dad's always bringing home Muggle stuff, but he doesn't know how it works and I want to know what they're really like."

Harry shrugged. "My parents weren't Muggles, but my mother was Muggle-born. I live with my aunt and uncle. They're awful, but most Muggles... people are just people."

"I know _that_ ," the girl said scornfully. "I meant, how do they live without magic? Dad says stuff about eckletricity, and he collects plugs, but they don't do anything. And Muggles don't have Floo powder or brooms, and they don't have owls, so how do they make things work, anyhow?" She looked at Harry as if he could explain all that to her.

It was an odd feeling to have someone think he had answers. Harry wasn't sure it was a comfortable feeling, especially since he didn't have the slightest idea what Floo powder was. "Erm," he said.

"Ginny, stop bothering the poor boy," said the plump woman as they reached the end of the train. "Fred, George, come help lift these trunks." Ginny made a face behind her mother's back and then grinned at Harry.

The twins each grabbed one end of Harry's trunk and maneuvered it into the corner of an empty compartment. Harry walked behind them, carrying Hedwig, and set her cage on top of the trunk. "Thanks," he said, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"What's that?" said one of the twins suddenly, pointing at Harry's lightning scar.

"Blimey," said the other twin. "Are you--?"

"He _is_ ," said the first twin. "Aren't you?" he added to Harry.

"What?" said Harry.

" _Harry Potter_ ," chorused the twins.

"Oh, him," said Harry. "I mean, yes, I am."

The two boys gawked at him, and a voice piped up from behind. "You're _Harry Potter?_ Wow! And you live with Muggles and didn't know about the platforms? That's funny!" Ginny was grinning at Harry again when he turned around, and her gangling brother, Ron, was standing still with his mouth open in shock, staring at Harry's scar.

"Erm," said Harry.

"I talked to Harry Potter! Harry Potter talked to me!" Ginny flushed, made a peculiar squeaking noise, and bounced on her toes. "I have to tell Mum!" She pushed past her brother and ran down the train, leaving the compartment in surprised silence.

"Erm," said Harry again.

The twins exchanged sly looks. "Do you think--?" one said.

"I _do_ ," said the other. "Ickle Ginny has a _crush_. And that means..."

"Ta for now," said the first twin, and they dashed out of the compartment in pursuit of their sister.

Ron was still standing with his mouth open; slowly, he closed it. "Are you really Harry Potter?" he blurted out. "That's really your scar?"

Harry nodded.

"Oh," said Ron, and sat down heavily, leaving his trunk half in and half out of the compartment. "So that's where You-Know-Who--?"

"Yes," said Harry, "but I can't remember it."

"Nothing?" asked Ron eagerly.

"Well, I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else."

"Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments. Then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out the window again. He had a smudge on his nose, Harry noticed.

"Er, your trunk--" Harry began.

Ron looked up and flushed. "Right. Grab the other end?" Together, they shoved the trunk into the corner opposite Harry's, and sat down across from each other. A whistle sounded as Harry tried to figure out something to say, and Ron stuck his head out the window.

"Bye, Ginny!" he called.

"Don't forget to owl!" she yelled back. "You promised!"

"Right, yeah, I remember," said Ron. The train began to move. Harry, leaning over, saw Ginny running alongside the train, waving. He waved back, tentatively, and she jumped up and down, throwing her arms in the air and laughing.

"Now you've done it," said Ron, gloomily. "She'll write to me every day and ask about you, even if we end up in different houses."

"Sorry," said Harry. The idea that someone was interested in him was baffling.

Ron waved it off. "It's not a big deal. Er, I'm Ron Weasley. Nice to meet you." He held out his hand, and Harry shook it awkwardly. They fell back into silence, each stealing the occasional fascinated look at each other.

"Are all your family wizards?" Harry asked eventually.

"Mostly," said Ron. "I think Mum's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

"So you must know loads of magic already," said Harry. The Weasleys were clearly one of the old wizarding families that Draco had talked about in Madam Malkin's shop. He shifted on his seat, feeling out of place again.

"So, you live with Muggles?" asked Ron. "What are they like?"

"Horrible -- well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are, though. Wish I'd had three wizard brothers."

"Five," said Ron, looking gloomy for some reason, and proceeded to tell Harry all about the trials of being the youngest and not having enough money to afford an owl instead of the rat he'd inherited from his brother Percy, at which he broke off in embarrassment.

Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford things. After all, he'd never had any money until a month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley's old clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer Ron up, until Harry forgot and said Voldemort's name.

Ron's shock reminded him, again, how out of place he was, and they fell silent until a witch came by pushing a cart filled with packaged foods that Harry had never seen in his life -- they were wizarding food, he assumed -- and he bought some of everything. Then he shared with Ron. He'd never had anything to share before, or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a warm feeling, sitting there with Ron and eating their way through the pasties, cakes, and sweets. Ron explained about Chocolate Frog cards and the dangers of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and was suitably impressed when Harry tried a funny-looking gray one that turned out to be pepper.

If he had a friend, Harry thought, the wizarding world probably wouldn't be so bad.

\---------------

Over the next few hours, the train passed from fields and meadows into a landscape of woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills. Harry and Ron talked about this and that, slowly getting to know each other, until a round-faced boy came into their compartment in search of his lost toad. Neither Harry nor Ron had seen it.

A bit later, as Ron was getting ready to demonstrate a spell the twins had taught him to turn his rat a different color, a bushy-haired girl opened the door and dragged the toadless boy in again. "Neville's lost his toad," she said in a bossy sort of voice. "Have you seen it?"

"We already told him we haven't," said Ron, but the girl wasn't listening. She was looking at the wand in his hand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it then." She sat down.

Ron looked taken aback. "Er, all right." He cleared his throat.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,  
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers, the rat, stayed gray and fast asleep.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" the girl asked, and then proceeded to introduce herself as Hermione Granger, explain that she was Muggle-born, reveal her house preferences (Gryffindor or Ravenclaw), tell Harry she'd learned all about him in the intimidating amount of extra reading she'd done, order them to change into their robes, and drag Neville off again, all in short order.

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron fervently.

"What house do you think you'll be in?" asked Harry.

"Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mum and Dad were in it, too -- I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

"Oh," said Harry. He still didn't know what difference these houses made -- though obviously they meant a bit more than houses in normal schools -- and he didn't want to look stupid by asking. He changed the subject. "So, what do your oldest brothers do now that they've left Hogwarts, anyway?"

"Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa working for Gringotts," said Ron. "Did you hear about Gringotts? It's been all over the _Daily Prophet_ , but I don't suppose you get that with the Muggles -- someone tried to rob a high security vault, and _didn't get caught_. My dad says it must've been a powerful dark wizard, to get round Gringotts. And, of course, everyone's scared when something like this happens, in case You-Know-Who's behind it."

Harry turned this over in his mind. He was starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know-Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more comfortable saying "Voldemort" without worrying.

"What's your Quidditch team?" asked Ron.

"I don't know any," Harry confessed, feeling awkward.

"What!" Ron looked dumbfounded. "Oh, you wait, it's the best game in the world--" And he was off, explaining everything he could think of about the game that was clearly his obsession. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of strategy when the compartment door slid open yet again, but this time it wasn't Neville the toadless boy, nor Hermione Granger.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was Draco, the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. He was looking at Harry with sharper interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley.

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So that's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. One had a flat nose and an unfortunate pudding-bowl haircut, while the other had heavy brows and short, wiry hair that grew low on his forehead. They were tall and thickset, and seemed as though they could be very unpleasant if they felt like it. Standing on either side of Draco, they looked like bodyguards.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle -- Vince and Greg, that is," said Draco carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. "And I'm Draco, you remember -- Draco Malfoy."

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco looked hurt for a second, and then glared at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who _you_ are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." He turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Harry. You want to be careful who you choose as your friends -- I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Harry's.

Harry didn't take it. "First you owe Ron an apology," he said.

Draco didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks. "He laughed at me!"

That didn't excuse insulting people, but it was true. "So you both owe each other apologies," said Harry, and waited.

Now Ron turned red around his ears. "I'm not apologizing to that bastard! Not to a Malfoy!"

Harry had the distinct feeling he'd stepped into an old argument he didn't understand. "What's wrong with Malfoys?"

"They're dark!" said Ron. "They fought for You-Know-Who -- claimed they'd been under Imperius and it wasn't their fault, but my dad says they didn't need an excuse to go over to the dark side."

"My father isn't evil!" snapped Draco, stepping forward and clenching his hands. "Anyway, _your_ father's crooked. He collects enchanted Muggle artifacts, but my father says they don't get returned or filed -- they just _disappear_. What's your father doing with them, then?"

"You shut up about my dad!" shouted Ron, surging to his feet. Vince and Greg stepped forward to flank Draco and settled themselves for a fight.

"Stop!" Harry, to his surprise, found himself on his feet and standing between Ron and Draco. "Both of you, stop." He turned to Draco and said, "Sorry. Can we talk later?"

Draco drew himself up in righteous indignation and glared at Ron. "Fine. But not with Weasley around." He waved at Vince and Greg -- Vince shrugged apologetically at Harry -- and swept out of the compartment. Greg shut the door behind them.

Ron flung himself onto his seat, panting in fury. "Bloody hell! Don't tell me you _like_ that bastard! He's a Malfoy!"

"So?" Harry said sharply. "You said you don't like people looking at you and seeing your brothers instead of you, but you're doing that to him. Whatever Draco's father did, it isn't _his_ fault. And you did laugh first."

Ron scowled, and then a thoughtful look spread over his face. "All right," he said grudgingly. "I won't hate him for his family. But I bet you he's such a git I'll end up hating him anyway."

"That's all right," said Harry.

Just then, Hermione Granger slid the door open and stuck her head into the compartment. "You're still not changed?" she said disapprovingly. "You'd better hurry up and put your robes on. I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly there."

"Would you mind leaving while we change?" asked Ron, scowling at her.

"All right -- I was only trying to help," said Hermione in a sniffy voice. "And you've got dirt on your nose, by the way -- did you know?"

Ron glared at her as she left, and rubbed at his nose.

Shortly thereafter, the train stopped, and they stepped out onto a tiny, dark platform, waiting for their first look at Hogwarts.

\---------------

Hogwarts was a massive, imposing castle, and it made Harry feel small and nervous, an impression that seemed to be shared by most of the other first year students. Hagrid led them across a dark lake in a fleet of small boats, and then turned them over to a stern, black-haired witch who introduced herself as Professor McGonagall. Harry remembered her name from his acceptance letter.

She took them to a small chamber off the echoing front hall, and informed them that in a short while they would be sorted into their houses. "Your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts," she said. "You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards." She then explained the system of house points, and concluded by telling them to straighten up while they waited for the Sorting Ceremony.

Harry nodded to himself as he listened. If each house had a noble history, then it made no sense for Slytherin to be evil. He hoped that also meant Hufflepuff wasn't for idiots and people who were hopelessly lost -- otherwise he was certain he'd end up there.

"How do they sort us?" he asked Ron.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt, which wasn't helped when nearly twenty ghosts suddenly streamed through the back wall of the chamber, talking amongst themselves. However, Professor McGonagall came back before he could work himself up more, and shooed the ghosts away. "Form a line," she told the first years, "and follow me."

Feeling as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line behind Hermione Granger, with Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the entry hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

Harry had never imagined such a strange and splendid place. It was lit by thousand and thousand of candles that floated in midair over four long tables, set with gold plates and goblets, where the older students were sitting. At the top of the hall was another long table for the teachers. Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them.

Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked up and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside," Hermione whispered. "I read about it in _Hogwarts, a History_." It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn't simply open onto the heavens.

Harry quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed a stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat, which was patched, frayed, and extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let it within ten feet of her house, let alone in the door.

For a few seconds, there was complete silence as everyone in the hall stared at the hat. Then it twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth -- and the hat began to sing. Harry gaped in surprise. First the hat boasted about its intelligence, and then it began to describe the four houses:

_"You might belong in Gryffindor,_   
_Where dwell the brave at heart;_   
_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_   
_Set Gryffindors apart._

_"You might belong in Hufflepuff,_   
_Where they are just and loyal;_   
_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_   
_And unafraid of toil._

_"Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_   
_If you've a ready mind,_   
_Where those of wit and learning_   
_Will always find their kind._

_"Or perhaps in Slytherin_   
_You'll make your real friends;_   
_Those cunning folk use any means_   
_To achieve their ends._

_"So put me on! Don't be afraid!_   
_And don't get in a flap!_   
_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_   
_For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

"So we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered to Harry. "I'll kill Fred -- he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Harry smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot better than having to do a spell, but he wished they could do it without everyone watching. The hat seemed to be asking a lot; Harry didn't feel brave, patient, quick-witted, cunning, or any of it at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a sheet of parchment. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said, and began calling the first years in alphabetical order by last name.

Harry was definitely starting to feel sick. He couldn't even ask the hat to put him into whatever house Ron got, since he'd be sorted first. A horrible thought struck him, as horrible thoughts sometimes did when he was nervous: what if he wasn't chosen at all? What if he just sat there with the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had obviously been a mistake and he'd better get back on the train?

Hermione Granger got sorted into Gryffindor and looked deliriously happy. Ron groaned. Neville Longbottom, the boy with the runaway toad, also went to Gryffindor, though he seemed more glum than excited. Harry began to wonder what the hat was looking for, since Neville hadn't seemed particularly brave to him. Then Draco Malfoy got sorted into Slytherin and joined Vince and Greg at the far table. He looked pleased, and started whispering to his friends.

At last Professor McGonagall called out, "Potter, Harry!"

Whispers broke out like little hissing fires as Harry stepped forward. " _Potter_ , did she say?" and, " _The_ Harry Potter?" and, "At Hogwarts, really?" and, finally, "I don't believe it!"

Harry didn't particularly believe it himself. The last thing he saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. He waited, nervously.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes -- and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting. So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and tried very hard to keep his mind blank.

"Going to make me do all the work, eh?" said the small voice. "Well, not Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, I think -- that's not where your interests lie. Slytherin or Gryffindor, then. Both can help you on your way to greatness, you know, it's just a choice of method."

I don't want greatness, Harry thought fiercely. _I just want to learn how to fit in so they don't send me back to the Dursleys._

"An interesting ambition," said the small voice. "Are you sure about that? In that case, you go to SLYTHERIN!"

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily toward the Slytherin table. He was so relieved to have been chosen that it took him quite a long moment to realize that while the Slytherins were giving him the loudest cheer yet, the rest of the hall was utterly silent.

Draco Malfoy waved him over, and Harry gratefully sat down across from him. "Good choice," said Draco. "Welcome to Slytherin." Vince nodded at Harry. Greg rolled his eyes at Draco's tone. Harry agreed with Greg; Draco sounded like he owned Slytherin house even though he was only a first year.

He turned and got his first proper look at the High Table where the teachers sat. At the far end, Hagrid caught his eye, looking confused and upset. Harry shrugged and waved to him, which made the giant relax a bit. Near Hagrid sat Professor Quirrell, a nervous young man in a turban whom he remembered from his trip to Diagon Alley.

Beyond them, in the center of the High Table, sat an old man with half-moon glasses, long silver hair, a white beard that reached his stomach, and incredibly bright purple robes with green and orange stars on them. That was Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts; Harry recognized him from one of the Chocolate Frog cards he'd found on the train. He looked thoughtful, but he nodded politely to Harry when he noticed Harry watching. Harry felt oddly relieved by that.

Ron was the second-last to be sorted, and he went to Gryffindor almost immediately -- Harry wondered if the hat had even bothered to talk with him. He waved across the hall, but Ron turned away without answering.

"Gryffindors and Slytherins don't get along," said Draco, seeing this. "If you want to be his friend -- and I can't think why you'd want to bother -- you'll have to catch him alone where nobody can see him talking to you. Otherwise he'll feel dirty." He made a face. "Gryffindors are idiotic that way."

"Oh," said Harry, wondering just what he'd got himself into.

At the front of the hall, Dumbledore rose to his feet. He beamed at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. "Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

He sat back down. People at the other tables clapped and cheered. Harry noticed that the Slytherins were less enthusiastic about their clapping, and he lowered his hands. "Is Dumbledore... a bit mad?" he asked Draco uncertainly.

"A _bit_ mad?" said Draco. "He's mad as a hatter! But he's a powerful wizard, my father says, and a lot more clever than he lets on. Pass the potatoes."

Harry's mouth fell open. The serving dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some reason, peppermint humbugs.

The Dursleys hadn't starved him, but he'd never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious.

"Did those Muggles _starve_ you?" asked Draco, watching him in fascination.

Harry shook his head and swallowed. "Not exactly."

"Close enough, it looks like," said Draco. Then he tapped his knife against his plate. "So. If you've been raised by Muggles -- and I can't tell you what a disgrace that is; whoever thought of it should be _hexed_ \-- there must be hundreds of things you don't know. You ought to learn quickly enough, though, even if your mother _was_ Muggle-born. I'll teach you, but you'll owe me a favor for later."

"What's my mother got to do with anything?" asked Harry.

"Well, you know," said Draco, looking a bit uncomfortable, "Muggle-borns just aren't as good as purebloods. There's so much they don't know, and they aren't as strong, and they have all sorts of funny ideas that cause trouble."

Harry laid his fork beside his plate and took a deep breath. "Just because people don't know things doesn't mean they're stupid. Your ideas would be funny in the Muggle world -- would you like me to say that _you're_ not as good as a Muggle?"

Draco went pink with anger. "You'd compare _me_ to a filthy _Muggle?_ "

"Why not?" Harry said recklessly. "Just because you can do magic doesn't make you better -- I bet if you lost your wand and had to live as a Muggle you'd be worse off than any Muggle-born wizard coming to Hogwarts. At least they're trying to learn!"

"Vince, Greg--" Draco began, but a hoarse, metallic voice interrupted him before he could give any orders.

"Well said, Potter," the hoarse voice whispered. "Slytherin is the house of ambition and wit, and in order to use those, we must learn. Never assume anything is worthless or unimportant, until you know it inside and out and can make an informed decision."

Harry turned, and saw a ghost sitting beside him. It had blank, staring eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood. He shrank sideways, and was glad that Draco shifted away as well.

"I am called the Bloody Baron," the ghost said in his terrible, shivery voice. "Resident ghost of Slytherin house. Potter. Malfoy. Crabbe. Goyle." He nodded at each boy in turn, and then sat back with an expression that hinted at limited patience.

Harry and Draco looked at each other. "Sorry," Draco mumbled, not sounding particularly sincere.

"Right, sorry," said Harry. He looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin. Suddenly, the hook-nosed man looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes -- and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead.

He clapped a hand to his head.

"Headache?" asked Vince.

"Just a twinge," said Harry, lowering his hand. The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. What didn't go was the feeling Harry got from the teacher's look -- a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.

"Who's that talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked the Bloody Baron.

Draco answered first. "Quirrell's the git with the turban, right? That's my godfather talking to him, Professor Snape. He's our head of house, and he teaches Potions -- he's a genius with them -- but he'd rather teach Defense. He knows a lot about the Dark Arts."

At last the food and desserts disappeared, and Dumbledore got to his feet again to give out a few start-of-term notices. The forest on the grounds was forbidden, he said, no magic was allowed in the corridors, Quidditch trials would be held next week, and the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side of the castle was out of bounds "to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

"He's not serious?" said Harry.

"He is," said the Bloody Baron. "Dumbledore has his reasons." The ghost frowned, though it was hard to spot much change in his dour expression. "I've never discovered the reason for this next part, however, and whatever it may be, I doubt I could twist my mind around it."

When he realized that Dumbledore meant everyone to sing the school song to whatever tune they wanted, Harry agreed with the Baron. Any reason for that would have to be insane.

Once the Weasley twins finished -- they were singing to a very slow funeral march -- Dumbledore wiped his eyes. "Ah, music," he said. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Slytherin first years gathered behind a tall, rawboned girl who introduced herself as Cecily Greengrass, and followed her through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and down toward the dungeon levels. Harry's legs felt like lead again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. He was too sleepy to be surprised that the people in the paintings along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that one of the staircases they climbed pulled itself loose while they were halfway down it and let them off in a different corridor from the one they'd first headed toward.

Harry was just wondering how much father they had to go when they stopped in front of a stretch of bare, damp stone wall. "The password is _incarnadine_ ," Cecily said. "Remember that." A concealed door slid open, and she ushered them through into the Slytherin common room. It was a long, low, underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling. Round, greenish lamps hung down on chains, and a fire crackled under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them. Several older students sat around it in high-backed chairs.

"Boys that way, girls this way," said Cecily, directing the first years through the room to a pair of narrow stone staircases. Draco led the way up the stairs to a long corridor with ten doors. Seven were obviously bedrooms, labeled 'Fifth Years,' 'Second Years,' and so on; the other three were bathrooms. The first years were at the end of the corridor, in a room with six four-poster beds, hung with emerald green curtains. Their trunks had somehow been brought in already and laid in front of the beds.

To tired to talk much, the boys made quick introductions -- the two strangers turned out to be Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini -- then pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed.

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very strange dream. He was wearing Quirrell's turban, which kept talking to him, praising him for choosing Slytherin, and advising him to complete his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn't want any sort of destiny, thanks, but it wouldn't listen. It got heavier and heavier -- he tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully -- a hall full of people laughed at him as he struggled -- then only the hook-nosed teacher was left -- his laugh turned high and cold -- there was a burst of green light and pain--

Harry woke, sweating and shaking, one hand pressed to his scar. It didn't hurt; it had only been a dream. He rolled over and fell asleep again. When he woke the next morning, he didn't remember the dream at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for this chapter is 'scene-shift AU.' In other words, I kicked canon in the knees at a carefully chosen point or two and speculated on what changes might result.


	11. Fixation, VI

**Fault Lines -- 22, remembering**

It was a good morning until he reached page two of the newspaper. Then his stomach roiled, and he wanted to start casting Unforgiveables.

Draco folded the paper, dropped it onto the floor, and pulled the serving platter of bacon over to his side of the table. "Potter. Let's buy the _Daily Prophet_ , fire all the writers, and burn the offices to the ground."

"That won't do any good," said Harry. "Give me some bacon and tell me what they wrote this time."

Draco sniffed. "Ginny only cooks it because I like it -- therefore, it's my bacon, and I can share it or not as I please. Today I don't please." But he handed one slice across the table, just to keep Harry listening. "It's the usual rubbish. Father dead in Azkaban, mother a Death Eater, hereditary Black madness and obsession -- mostly Aunt Bellatrix, but they threw Sirius in for variety -- the attack on Hogwarts, and wondering how long before I snap and murder you in your sleep. I wouldn't murder you in your sleep even if I did want to set myself up as a Dark Lord. It's tacky, and besides, Ginny would skin me alive."

"I'm glad we're clear on that," said Ginny, setting down a platter of toast and a jar of marmalade. "Ignore them, Draco. They just want an entertaining reaction out of you."

"I know," snapped Draco, "but just once, I wish they'd remember that nobody spends _all_ their time being evil. And this time, there's a side article wondering if I was abused and spent my childhood acting out -- they bring up Father's walking stick, and the way Mother never hugged me in public. It's one thing to say they were terrorists who served the Dark Lord -- that's true, after all -- but they were good parents!"

Harry looked skeptical. "There's more than one kind of abuse -- I looked it up, after the war. The Dursleys never hit me, or really starved me, but locking people in cupboards and telling them they're worthless isn't exactly good parenting either. Emotional neglect, I think it's called."

"Father only criticized when I did something stupid or failed to live up to my potential," said Draco. "When I did something right, he told me that too. And what do you mean, emotional neglect? I wasn't neglected. Mother and Father loved me. You know Snape killed Dumbledore because Mother made him swear the Unbreakable Vow to carry out my task if I failed! If she hadn't loved me, she would never have gone that far."

Harry was clutching the butter knife like a sword, and Draco abruptly realized that that had, perhaps, not been the best example to raise.

"I'm still sorry about that," he said quietly. "But you have to see that even if my parents were on the wrong side, that didn't make them bad _parents_."

Silence fell for a moment, broken by Ginny's cough. "You might expect Death Eaters to be cruel in all situations, but people are amazingly good at compartmentalizing," she said in a distant tone, not looking up from her toast and marmalade. "One group of people matters, and everyone else doesn't count. So your parents could love you and murder your Muggle-born classmates at the same time, because you counted and the others were vermin. Or my parents can love me and hate you, because I'm family and you're evil. Or Harry's aunt and uncle--"

Harry took a deep breath. "Okay, I get it. Back to the original subject -- no, you can't do anything to the _Daily Prophet_. It won't help. What you _can_ do, if you're that upset, is give Luna an interview and explain what your family was really like."

Draco considered the idea. On the one side, it would make the truth public. On the other side, he hated talking about his family; no matter how he tried to explain things, he only seemed to give gossip-mongers more food for their poisonous theories. On the third side, maybe it was time to tell his story so he could finally wash his hands of the whole business and just point people to the interview whenever they asked intrusive questions. That seemed to work for Harry.

"Right. Ginny, when's the best time to Floo Luna?"

Ginny swallowed a bite of toast and said, "Ask Harry -- she never talks about work when we go out drinking."

"I'll bring her by the Ministry when I pick you up for lunch," said Harry. "She'll probably want an exclusive on whatever Dark objects you're cataloging today, but I'm sure you'll be able to talk her out of that."

"I hate when you barge in and drag me off in the middle of work. You always interrupt me in the middle of forensic charms and everybody _stares_ at you," Draco grumbled, but it was a pro forma objection and they both knew it.

"So that's settled," said Ginny, clapping her hands briskly. "Now, since I was nice enough to get up early and cook for you two today, it's your turn to wash the dishes and do the rest of the housework."

The subsequent argument pushed aside the last of Draco's outrage, at least for the moment. 

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Truce -- 8, babies**

What you have to know is that Draco Malfoy is a bloody fucking _bastard_. I hate him, he hates me, and in a perfect world I'd get to kill him for everything he's done, and then I'd get a bloody _medal_ for it.

So it's perfectly reasonable that I didn't want him coming to see Abigail. But we had to have Harry and Ginny over, and these days, that means having Malfoy too -- they've gone downright unreasonable about him. Hermione's always after me to at least act polite in public, and if you pulled my fingernails out by the roots, I might admit that Malfoy seems to make my sister and my best friend happy, so...

We invited them over.

Abigail was three days old. They'd just let Hermione out of the Muggle hospital -- still can't believe she talked me into that instead of St. Mungo's or a midwife -- her parents had driven us home, and we'd got Mum and Dad's visit out of the way. Hermione was in the rocking chair, feeding Abigail -- lucky girl -- and I was fixing lunch. Nothing fancy, just fish and chips, but I cook better than she does, and we can't keep house elves more than a couple months before she drives them to drink with her liberation nonsense and I have to work another swap with the Ministry relocation office.

Anyway, I'd just put everything on the plates and dropped the frying pan in the sink when the doorbell rang. That was Harry. Ginny's got as rude as the twins these days -- just Apparates straight in without asking -- and they may say Malfoy has manners but I've never seen proof. Harry's polite about little things like that, though.

I told Hermione I'd get the door -- I wanted a few words with Malfoy before he saw her and Abigail. She just sighed. I swear she can read my mind sometimes.

Harry had his hand raised to press the bell again when I opened the door. Ginny was on his left and Malfoy on his right, both of them leaning up against his shoulders even though it was stinking hot out without Cooling Charms. They're like that, always touching, like they're screaming 'Mine mine mine!' all the time. Which is a horrible thing to say about my own sister, but Ginny's a little spoiled and she likes to get her way.

Sometimes I wonder why she hasn't killed Malfoy and found a way to blame it on me. That'd get Harry all to herself. Either she thinks she'd get caught, or she actually likes the bastard. I almost hope it's the first option -- if I didn't have Hermione and Abigail, I'd be happy to take the fall as long as Malfoy died -- but then, I already told you I wish I could strangle him with my bare hands.

"Hi, Ron!" said Harry. He shook off Ginny and Malfoy and hugged me. It really was too hot for that, so I pulled him inside. Ginny and Malfoy followed; Malfoy shut the door.

Then Ginny hugged me too, and told me I was a selfish git for not telling them which hospital we'd used so they could have an adventure taking the Underground to visit us. (The Underground is a Muggle thing where they dig tunnels and run trains in them. The trains work mostly by eckletricity. I thought this was because steam or petrol would get mucky underground, but Hermione says it's because eckletricity lets the trains go faster, and stop faster, and is more efficient. Also, yes, coal and petrol are a problem underground. So I was half right. One day, I'll get Muggle things all figured out.)

Anyway, I pried Ginny off and shoved her and Harry toward the living room and Hermione. Then I grabbed Malfoy's arm and dragged him into the kitchen. "Look," I told him, "you're here because Harry and Ginny want you. Hermione and I are trying to be polite, but there are limits. Don't even think about touching Abigail. And keep your mouth shut."

"As if I'd want to touch something you helped create," Malfoy sneered, and brushed at his sleeve where my hand had been. "This visit certainly wasn't _my_ idea."

I'm still impressed I didn't punch him for calling my daughter a thing.

So I followed Malfoy into the living room -- wouldn't trust him at my back -- and Hermione had handed Abigail to Ginny. They'd gone all mushy over her, which made them look damn silly and sound like halfwits, but women seem to do that around babies. I felt a little mushy myself, inside, so I didn't say anything.

Then Ginny handed Abigail to Harry and cooed and flittered and said how good he looked with a baby -- which wasn't true; he was scared stiff and hardly breathing -- and wondered if maybe she...

Which was when Malfoy stepped forward and said, "There'd be an equal chance your spawn would be half mine, and I don't know that I want anything to do with the Weasley plan to breed themselves into control of wizarding Britain."

Hermione glared at me, so I still didn't punch him. And Ginny slapped him, so I let it go.

Harry laughed at Malfoy and handed Abigail back to Hermione -- she sat down in the rocker while Harry and Ginny sat on the sofa. I hauled the armchair over next to Hermione and let Abigail catch my finger while Hermione told Ginny about labor and how much it hurt, and how wonderful potions were compared to Muggle painkillers. I'd told her that, but Hermione still likes to check everything herself. It's one of the reasons I love her.

Don't tell her I said that.

After a while, I looked sideways over to where Malfoy was standing in the doorway, keeping my head down so he wouldn't notice I was watching. And...

Look, I hate him. I'll always hate him.

But I'd just seen that expression on his face in my own mirror -- a little awe, a little fear, a whole lot of mush -- and he was looking at Abigail like I used to look at Bill and Fleur's sons. Like maybe he wanted a daughter, and he couldn't think of anything that would be more amazing, and he didn't think he deserved that.

So when Ginny told me, yesterday, that she was going to have a baby and she thought it might probably be Malfoy's -- Harry was on a trip for most of the time in question -- I didn't go string the bastard up for what he did to my sister. Not yet.

I figure he gets one chance to screw up first.

_Then_ I'll kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Special Bonus Ficlet!**
> 
> This is my original response to theme #22: remembering. I scrapped it for various and sundry reasons, the most important being that I wanted an actual story rather than a character study, and I wanted to at least _attempt_ subtlety. But I am a packrat and I didn't want to delete a finished ficlet, so I'm posting it for the sake of completeness. *grin*
> 
> \---------------------------------------------  
>  **Perspective**  
>  \---------------------------------------------
> 
> The world remembers that Draco made the attack on Hogwarts possible. The world remembers his father assaulting the Ministry, his father's trial, his father's death in Azkaban. The world remembers his mother, his aunt, and his uncle standing next to the Dark Lord in the final battle.
> 
> Draco remembers letters and sweets, faithfully owled to him every week. He remembers rare words of approval and the brief nod of respect that accompanied them. He remembers arguments, lectures, and the way that disapproval hurt more than any blow ever could, because he knew he'd failed his parents' trust. He remembers love. It was quiet, and restrained, but he never doubted its presence.
> 
> Harry remembers that Draco yelps and laughs when someone runs a hand along the side of his ribs; he does that, now and then, sometimes in public. Ginny remembers that he likes bacon for breakfast; she cooks it for him on weekends, and whenever she happens to see sunrise during the week. Harry remembers to drop by his office and make sure he comes up for air and eats lunch, which Draco accidentally-on-purpose forgets to do because he doesn't like facing his coworkers' measuring stares. Ginny remembers to buy hair gel when it's on sale, which Draco always forgets to do because he's not used to shopping for household necessities, or watching his money.
> 
> Draco remembers reaching out his hand on a train and being turned away. He remembers a bone-deep ache in his arm, from slow-healing nerve damage, and his fury when nobody believed it was real. He remembers insults and curses flung in the corridors. He remembers victory after victory snatched away on the Quidditch pitch. He remembers being punched, strangled, and kicked in the shins. He remembers hatred and disgust, and no sign that anything would ever change, that he could ever fix that first impression.
> 
> Draco looks at his life and wonders at the changes. Sometimes the world collapses underneath you. And sometimes miracles happen.


	12. Quantum Mirror

**Solstice -- 11, snowfall**

They hadn't been able to find time during the last year of the war, but now that Voldemort was finally, completely, without-a-doubt dead, Harry was determined to learn Animagery. Ginny wanted to beat him upside the head with her girliest shoes, the ones with two-and-a-half inch spike heels. (She'd bought them specifically for that purpose, after all... well, that and the way he looked at her when she wore them and let her hips sway a bit.) But she gritted her teeth and went along with him. If Harry wanted to turn into an animal, she'd change right beside him; like bloody _hell_ was she going to let him slip away again.

The Ministry, having for once actually paid attention to events, had decreed that people interested in studying restricted transfigurative magic should declare their intentions beforehand instead of registering after the fact. This was still ultimately pointless -- really, did Scrimgeour have some way to burst into private workrooms or read minds without any sort of permit? -- but it did mean that sometimes there were officially sponsored lessons, and Animagi-hopefuls could gather and meet each other. It was nice, Ginny admitted, to have people around who understood her complaints.

She wasn't expecting to run into Draco Malfoy at one of the sessions, though.

"Malfoy," she said warily. He'd earned a pardon by feeding information to the Order in the last year of fighting, but she remembered the attack on Hogwarts and what his father had done. She didn't trust him further than she could throw him without magic.

"Weasley," he responded, his voice equally noncommittal, and flipped his hands palm up. No wand, no weapons -- a truce, then.

Ginny relaxed a fraction and showed her own hands before drawing her cloak more tightly around herself. "How far along are you? Theory? Potions? The calling? Stabilizing the form?"

"I'm trying to call tonight, obviously," said Malfoy. "Why else would I be at one of the outdoor sessions, and in bloody midwinter at that? This is a useless atmosphere for anything else, but there's no point trying something potentially suicidal on my own when I can have people ready to wait on me."

Ginny conceded the point, if not the precise motivation -- it was the same reason she and Harry had come to the Ministry-sponsored gathering. The first transformation, after calling in one's alternate form through soul affinities, could go rather spectacularly wrong. Bodily distortions, mindless animal rages, madness, shattered magical focus... the list of accidents wasn't exactly bedtime reading material.

"Have you had any glimmerings of your other shape?" she asked.

Malfoy shrugged. "Not much. Fur, I think, rather than feathers, and probably smaller than I'd prefer, but there are benefits to being inconspicuous." He glanced across the firelit clearing at Harry, who was absorbed in conversation with one of the mediwizards attending this session. "You? Potter?"

"The same for me -- and it seems to be reddish, which isn't terribly surprising." Ginny tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Harry's never been any use at visions. He hasn't the slightest idea what he might call in."

Malfoy's lips curved into his old, habitual smirk. "So he'll dive in blind like a good little Gryffindor. I can't decide if it would be more amusing for him to turn into a mouse, or into something so ridiculously extravagant that he'll never be able to use the form now that he's run out of enemies -- a lion, say, or a hippogriff."

Ginny's eyes drifted to Harry, who stood tall and proud, an unstudied aura of authority cloaking him despite all his claims that he wasn't anything special. "Maybe a stallion," she murmured.

Malfoy raised one eyebrow. "Oh? I'm sure he could round up plenty of mares..."

Ginny's attention snapped back, and she scowled. "Form does not determine fate."

"I suppose," said Malfoy. "Good luck, Weasley, and give Potter my regards." He walked away with a casual nod.

Later, Ginny reconsidered her instinctive denial of the changes Animagery could work in human personality. There were days when she wondered if Draco had been so wriggly and prone to biting before he became a ferret, or if she had been quite so territorial before she first slid into a vixen's fur. But she was sure Harry hadn't changed at all. When she first saw him, antlers rising against the snow-filled night like a crown draped with stars, all she could think was 'Of course.'

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Beauty -- 29, tattoo**

Draco watched the skull on his arm and waited for it to fade. Two days later, he was still waiting.

"That's strange," said Ginny when she caught him scratching the skin around the bluish-black mark. "Snape's went faint while old snake-face was doing his ghost imitation, right? You'd think it would go for good now that he's really dead."

Draco nodded. "Don't tell Potter."

Ginny fixed her hands on her hips and _looked_ at him.

"Right, sorry."

After another two days, Ginny dragged Draco from his vigil at Harry's bedside and Apparated them into Muggle London without so much as asking. He looked at the wild pictures plastered higgledy-piggledy in the shop windows, looked at the spotless interior just barely visible through the glass, and sighed extravagantly. "Weasley, you are such a drama queen."

"This is for me too," said Ginny, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I've always wanted to get a tattoo and after coming home with you and Harry, nothing I do will shock Mum for at least a month. I might as well take advantage."

Draco ended up with a sword piercing the skull from above, while flaming wings streamed out and upward to either side. "Death and rebirth -- very symbolic," said Ginny. She showed him the bracelets of thorns that ringed both her wrists, and Draco made the appropriate admiring noises. "Git," said Ginny amiably, and Apparated them back to St. Mungo's.

When Harry finally woke up after the stress of breaking the final Horcrux without killing himself, he was a bit surprised -- apparently he hadn't thought they were the sort to get tattoos -- but he liked them. There was a certain gleam in his eyes that they both knew how to read.

Draco found himself silently challenging Ginny. She grinned and held out her hand.

Now Draco's body is a patchwork quilt of ink -- wings on his back, snakes on his arms, dragons, flames, goblets, swords, sphinxes, lockets, books that bleed and stars that weep. Ginny's ink is all of a piece, a shifting net of vines and flowers and thorns that wreath around and around and flex when she breathes. Only Harry's skin is unstained.

Sometimes while he sleeps, they watch each other across his body. Ginny kisses his forehead. Draco runs his fingers along the ridged tissue of his forearm. Ginny cradles his hand. Draco touches his bare chest to feel that his heart still beats.

Harry's marks are drawn in blood.

\---------------  
\---------------  
\---------------

**Unexpected Turns -- 20, far away**

"Malfoy. Come with me."

Draco counted to ten -- he'd thought he'd made it quite clear that one price of his defection was a bit of privacy when he wanted it -- before he looked up from his study of the fire. Weasley's sister was trying to look calm and decisive, but he was an old hand at reading poses. She was nervous, a little embarrassed, furious -- probably about being nervous and embarrassed, which would explain why she was trying to smother her anger -- and, underneath all that, scared to death.

That was interesting. He hadn't seen her really scared since the whole mess with the Heir and the Basilisk back in second year, not even when she'd faced down his Aunt Bellatrix in a formal duel last winter. What had yanked her strings?

Draco leaned back in the sagging armchair and smirked. "Make me."

"Look, you're not a prisoner," she said, resting one hand on her hip. "You brought Hufflepuff's cup as proof of your good faith when you defected, and we believed you. You're only in Grimmauld Place for your own protection, so would you stop acting like we're going to chain you up and start casting Unforgiveables at you? If you at least _tried_ acting like a human being, we'd be a lot more inclined to let you out of the house occasionally. Also, _come with me_."

Draco sighed elaborately and followed her out of the small sitting room.

He was expecting Weasley's sister to take him to another interminable Order meeting, or maybe to the library to quiz him on his piecemeal knowledge of Dark Arts, but she led him up to the third floor corridor where the DA members had set up their rooms once it became clear the war wasn't ending as soon as they'd hoped. She pulled him into one of the bedrooms, locked the door, and then folded her arms and stared at him.

Draco glanced around the room -- two beds, nothing terribly frilly, but the flowered comforters and the nightdress on the closet door said that girls lived here, and the books on one night table and dresser practically screamed that one of those girls was Granger. Draco sauntered over to the window seat, folded his arms, and stared back at Ginny Weasley.

She sighed, short and frustrated, and sat on the bed with pink flowers. "There isn't a way to say this that doesn't make me sound like an idiot or worse. So I'm just going to tell you."

There was a long pause.

"I don't feel like I'm being informed," Draco said, while Weasley fidgeted.

"Shut it, Malfoy. This is embarrassing." She scowled, and began talking to the floor. "You know -- you must've heard Hermione say it at least once -- that Harry has a saving-people thing. A martyr complex. He thinks that if anybody gets hurt, it's his fault -- even if there's nothing he could've done -- and he thinks it's what he deserves if he gets hurt instead. It gets worse the longer any bit of trouble goes on, and it gets _really_ bad when Voldemort's involved."

Draco made a noncommittal noise to show he was listening. This was old news, but Weasley wouldn't have dragged him up here just to tell him things he already knew.

"I didn't notice at first," continued Weasley. "I thought he was just tired, worn down. But he's been pulling away from people. He's starting to get a funny look in his eyes, like he thinks he knows a way to make everything better, but he can't quite work up the nerve to do anything. Whenever I catch him looking like that, he'll smile and ask how I'm doing, and how everyone else is doing. Except he's not really listening. He doesn't hear me when I say that we're worried about him. He thinks that if he's the one who can defeat Voldemort -- who can _kill_ Voldemort -- then he's just a weapon and we don't really need _him_."

She tucked her arms closer to her body, as if suddenly cold. "I think he's decided we'll be better off without him. I think he's almost ready to do something suicidal, like attacking Voldemort alone."

There was another long pause, more uncomfortable than the first.

"Why tell me?" Draco asked eventually. Late morning sunshine slanted through the window, warm and golden against his back. The warmth felt tenuous, unreal.

"Because I can't get through to him -- he's so busy thinking I'll be safer without him that he won't listen to me, not even when I screamed at him last night," said Weasley. "But you... Harry doesn't care if you're safe. He argued in favor of giving you sanctuary, but he doesn't like you at all. Sometimes, he even hates you. And he _pays attention to you_." Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward to point a hand at Draco. "You're going to help me talk sense into him."

"Fine," said Draco, before he could stop himself.

He spent the next ten minutes belatedly trying to wring some favors in return for his help, but Weasley knocked down all his attempts. She was practically Slytherin in her focus, Draco thought sourly, as he followed her down the corridor to the room Potter shared with her brother. If she weren't working against him, he'd almost admire her.

"This is insane and it'll never work," he said in last-ditch protest.

"Stop stalling," said Weasley, and leaned past him to knock on the door. "Harry! I know you're in there -- open up!"

Bedsprings creaked and footsteps moved toward the door, which swung open to reveal a rather rumpled and irritated Harry Potter. "If you know I'm in here, you know--" He broke off and glared at Draco. "Ginny. What is _he_ doing here?"

"That's for us to know and you to figure out," said Weasley, shoving Draco forward. Potter stepped aside to avoid contact, which had the convenient side effect of opening a space for Draco and Weasley to slip into the room.

Draco looked around in genuine interest, disguised, of course, as disdain. It was obvious which half of the room belonged to Weasley's brother -- it was papered with orange posters for the Chudley Cannons, and a royal mess to boot. Potter's half was tidy and plain, with all the displayed personality of a clod of dirt... except for a photo album on the night table and a thick, fusty book laid open on his pillow. He'd been researching something, then, and probably something bordering on Dark Arts -- the book had that sort of air.

Weasley walked over, grabbed the book, and slammed it shut.

"Hey!" said Potter. "I was reading that -- it's important."

"I've seen what you're reading these days. It's never important, because you're going at this the wrong way," said Weasley, tossing the book to Draco. Even surprised, he caught it perfectly. Potter tried not to react, but he turned just a fraction toward the book.

Draco looked at the title and winced theatrically. " _Tearing the Veil_ , is it? My father had a copy of this -- do you know what sort of spells are in here? Maybe one of them could destroy the Dark Lord and his last Horcrux in one shot, but only if you're willing to shred your own soul in the process and wind up a worse madman than he is."

"Madness? The introduction only mentioned death, not--" Potter clamped his mouth shut and looked like he wished he hadn't said anything.

Draco exchanged a long look with Weasley. "You were right," he said.

"I wouldn't have said a word to _you_ if I hadn't been sure," said Weasley, hands on her hips. "I have _some_ pride, you know."

"Unjustified, I'm sure," said Draco, with a sneer. Weasley just grinned, giving Draco a sinking suspicion that she might be learning to read him.

"Excuse me, but we were talking about the book," said Potter. "And I thought you said your father kept you out of his library, Malfoy -- when did you have a chance to read _Tearing the Veil_?"

Draco gave Potter one of his better disparaging looks, the one that implied its recipient was less intelligent and interesting than a flobberworm. "That's none of your business, Potter. To answer the question you didn't ask, yes, the spells in here _can_ be fatal, but more often they leave people afflicted with various degrees of madness -- loss of conscience, shredded memory, frothing paranoia, hallucinations, berserker rage -- little things like that. I'm sure your friends would be more than happy to see you in that state, and to put you down like a rabid dog if it came to that."

Potter flinched.

"You see, Harry?" said Weasley, laying a hand on Potter's shoulder. "You're not a weapon. You're a person, a human being. You matter to us. We don't want you to throw your life away -- this war isn't your fault and we don't blame you for anything Voldemort does. Why is it so hard for you to understand that?"

"Because he's a Gryffindor, you idiot," said Draco as Potter failed miserably to slide out of Weasley's grip. "All you lot are idiots -- the kind of idiots who get a bloody ridiculous notion into your heads and charge right off for glory, without ever stopping to think. Except Granger, I suppose, but she's twice as hard to stop once she starts charging, because she's so sure she's figured all the angles. Let me tell you, nobody ever gets all the angles figured. Life's a rotten bitch that way."

Weasley and Potter both spared him a furious glare, and then Weasley turned back to her not-quite-boyfriend. "See? You can't be sure any plan you come up with will work, so you're absolutely not allowed to go off on your own. What if your spells don't work, or you get captured? What do you think we'd do then?"

"So I am a weapon," said Potter, in tones of cynical satisfaction.

"No! Well, maybe a little. But that's not the point," said Weasley, grabbing Potter's hair and turning his face toward hers. "The point is that everybody in the Order and the DA cares about you -- you're our friend -- and if you're in danger, we're going to rescue you. Just like you rescue us. Friendship works in _both directions_ , Harry."

Potter stared helplessly into Weasley's eyes. His mouth opened once or twice, but he seemed incapable of forming any coherent answer.

Draco took pity on him. "That's the Gryffindor reason you shouldn't commit suicide," he drawled. "Here's another one to consider: if you die, you'll never get to say 'I told you so,' to all the cowards in hiding, and you won't have any way of influencing the rebuilding. If you live, you'll be the single most important figure in wizarding Britain, and this time you're old enough to make that count. If you want to help your precious Muggle-born followers, push through werewolf-friendly laws, or anything like that, you'll have to live. Dead heroes belong to whoever grabs their image and shouts the loudest. Living heroes have to deal with that too, but at least they can talk back."

Halfway through his little speech, Potter started frowning thoughtfully. Weasley let go of Potter's hair and stepped back, as if waiting for him to reach a conclusion.

"I never asked to be a hero," Potter said eventually.

"You didn't ask to be born, either," Draco pointed out. "Life is full of surprises." Like betraying the Dark Lord and ending up as a tentative ally of the Order of the bloody Phoenix -- he certainly hadn't anticipated that. The plan had simply sprung full-blown into his head when he was assigned to bring that sodding cup to the Dark Lord, and he'd found himself escaping the Death Eaters without ever consciously deciding to switch sides. Or like suddenly seeing Potter and Weasley as people instead of irritating obstacles or abstract factors to work around. That sort of personalization was always a nuisance, especially when he found himself liking people, the way he thought he might be able to like Weasley... and maybe Potter, too.

"I don't feel like a hero," continued Potter, ignoring Draco's comment. "I just want all this to be over," he said, sitting abruptly on his bed. "I remember when I was just Harry Potter, not the Boy Who Lived. Do you think if I live through the war, I might be able to be just Harry again?"

"Yes," said Weasley, and glared so fiercely at Draco that he bit his tongue rather than give Potter the more realistic answer. "Probably not all the time," Weasley added, "but at least sometimes you can just be you. Hermione and Ron and I will make sure of it."

"Oh, I suppose I'll help too," Draco found himself saying. "Heroes are boring, after all, and I'd like to see if 'just Harry' is worth knowing." That was, oddly enough, the truth.

"I'm not shaking your hand, Malfoy," said Potter.

"I'm not asking," said Draco. "For one thing, my hands are full," -- he flourished Potter's book -- "and for another, I don't need anyone attacking me for corrupting you with my foul, treacherous Slytherin presence. Besides, I've changed my mind a bit about which families are the right sort. With age comes wisdom and all that."

"You? Wise?" Potter laughed.

"If you can be a hero, I don't see why he can't be wise," said Weasley, grinning. "I certainly think he gives good advice."

"You're both idiots," said Draco, "and I'm leaving before you infect me." He shut the door on their mingled laughter and headed back to his sitting room. He had a new Dark Arts book to read -- his little spiel about madness had been nothing but invention, designed to shake Potter's focus -- and by this time, the DA and the Order knew better than to interrupt him while he was in there. He'd probably have until evening before Weasley remembered to collect _Tearing the Veil_ , which was more than enough to count this day a success.

Still. He tossed the book from hand to hand and admitted the truth to himself if no one else. He would have done that for nothing. Necessary weapon to defeat the Dark Lord or not, he didn't want Potter to die.

"And that," Draco said to himself, "is definitely not what I expected."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for this chapter was 'other ways Harry, Ginny, and Draco might have semi-plausibly gotten together.' (In other words, these are the stories that didn't have a specific theme, but which wouldn't fold into the main timeline.)


	13. Fixation, VII

**Epilogue: Wish Upon a Star**

They have three children -- one for each family, Ginny says, half-seriously, and she insists that they each choose one name. The family name is Fortuna, because it's good for siblings to share a name, it's bad for parents to argue about it, and they're really all ridiculously lucky to have made it this far. Harry gives in first, and halfway through Ginny's first labor, Draco finally agrees -- on pain of a broken hand -- that 'luck' has better connotations than 'bad faith.'

To Harry's surprise, he ends up as the comforter, the good listener, the one the children go to with bruises and tears. Ginny believes in discipline and yelling, and Draco is unpredictable -- sometimes he spoils them wildly, sometimes he snarls like a cornered bear -- so Harry ends up stable and reassuring by default. He grows used to the feel of a small body against his side on the couch, or on his lap while he eats breakfast. He takes to checking on the children when he comes home late, to running a hand just a breath away from their hair and skin, to reassure himself that they're real, they're alive, and he isn't going to wake up from a dream and lose them.

He thinks he might die if they vanished. They're lodged so deep in his heart, they shine so bright in his soul, that he can't understand how he ever lived without them.

When each child turns five -- first Lily, then Belle, then Gawain -- Harry takes them out into the back garden and teaches them to fly. Even if they don't choose to play Quidditch, he wants them to know the freedom of the sky.

Sometimes Ginny joins him and teaches the children to fly blind, or Draco demonstrates dirty tricks with Harry as his test dummy. Ginny shows them how to throw and catch the Quaffle; Draco charms the property line and brings out a stolen Snitch. Five shapes dance through the sunlit air, laughing, while Harry sits on the back steps and wonders what he did to deserve a happy ending.

"Come up, Harry -- we need you to even the teams," Ginny calls.

"He's just scared that the girls and I will show him up for deadweight," answers Draco, a cheerful sneer audible in his voice.

"Come on, Daddy! Come play with us!"

Harry grabs his broom and soars.


End file.
